Chapter One: In Which Ringo's Memory is Lost
Title: Forgetting to Remember
Author: That Awesome Person AKA Spirit414
Pairing: G/R and I might even have some J/P, still working out the kinks in that.
Summary: When Ringo hits his head in an accident, his memory is lost, and it's up to George, John, and Paul (but mostly George) to make sure he gets his memory back.
Author's Notes: New chapter!! Yay! So this one is LONG. But I didn't want to break it up because I want to be able to move on after the hospital scene. Thanks for all of the wonderful comments I got for the first chapter!! They make me happier beyond belief. But the next update wont be for a week or so because I'm going to DisneyWorld with my band so I won't have too much time to write. BUT. I'm still looking for a beta if anyone's interested. :) Enjoy!! Hopefully it's not boring.
Disclaimer: THIS IS FAKE. I don't own the Beatles and would never claim to. I repeat, this is absolute fiction. :)
Prologue
Richard Starkey woke to the sound of someone snoring. A very male someone who’s voice, or rather snore he couldn’t place. He felt the sound fill his clogged ears and fill his head as he struggled towards consciousness, seeing a rather bright light right outside his eyelids and thinking he must be dead.
Richard swallowed thickly, regaining feeling of his limbs one by one: his toes, his feet, legs then hands and arms. It was when he attempted to open his eyes that the pain hit. A dull, throbbing ache that pierced his skull and sent splitting pain through his head with every beat of his heart.
“Ohmshit,” he croaked through dry lips, squeezing his eyes against the light and twisting his stiff neck to the side, as if that would somehow ease the unbearable pounding in his head. It dawned on him that he couldn’t possibly be dead after all; heaven definitely wouldn’t allow for him to have this kind of pain would it? Or maybe he was in purgatory; after all, no one went directly to heaven did they?
Then where was he?
Richard grunted again, unable to move his heavy limbs around in what he assumed was a bed. The sharp ache in his head was making it rather hard to focus on any one thing at a moment, so he reluctantly gave up painful thinking for the time being, only to hear someone shifting around the room moments later.
“He’s awake! Doctor, he’s waking up I think!” The voice began to fade and Richard cracked a tentative eye, hoping to catch sight of whoever it was before he walked out the door.
He felt someone grab his hand suddenly, stroking calloused fingers over the soft skin on the top of his hand. “Whasoingon.” He groaned again, swallowing as best as he could with his dry throat and felt the owner of the hand give his own a squeeze, but he was too groggy to care who it was for the time being.
“Ritchie? You’re in the hospital alright? You’ve got to wake up now Rings; the doctor’s got to look at you. I’m sure the others will be here soon.”
Richard dragged his heavy eyelids open and attempted to focus on a very blurry face in front of him. The balding man that was much too close to his face smiled warmly and shined that bloody light in his eyes for the third time before speaking, “How do you feel?”
“Me head Hurts,” He croaked, “feels like someone’s driving a nail into it.”
The doctor nodded sympathetically, “That’s to be expected, we’re giving you pain medication now, it should work in a few minutes. Now all we need to do is look you over, make sure everything is working in that head of yours. What’s your name?”
“Richard Starkey,” he replied, feeling the pain intensify with every second he was awake.
“Right, and your birthday?”
“Uh, July 7th, 1940.”
Richard heard pen scratching on paper and it went straight to his head, another painful throb tearing through his brain, causing him to wince.
“Okay, where do you live, currently?”
“Number 9 Madryn Street, in Liverpool,” he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut against the light and clenching his teeth, praying that the painkillers would kick in sometime soon.
Richard had nearly forgotten about the person clutching his hand until whoever it was gave his hand a squeeze and finally spoke quietly, “S’not where he lives,” the voice muttered, “It’s where he was born, but not where he lives now.”
What? Who was this person and why did they think they knew better than him? Richard twisted his neck to the side and forced his eyes open despite the aching and attempted to focus on the face in front of him, the owner of the hand who was stroking his own a little bit too intimately. He managed to make out a pair of soft brown eyes, high cheekbones and two large eyebrows furrowed in concern.
Richard tore his hand from the man, the stranger whose eyes widened when he shifted away. The man bit his lip, “Ritch…? Ringo it’s me. George.”
Richard studied the man’s face for a moment, then slowly shook his head, “I don’t…I don’t know you.”
~~~
I don’t know you.
The words seemed to hit George squarely in the chest, knocking the air out of him. He felt suddenly light headed, felt the room spin before he remembered to breathe.
“Doctor?” George’s voice sounded alien even to his own ears, much too high and desperate, “What’s wrong with him? Why doesn’t he know??”
The doctor frowned and shuffled his paperwork, and George looked back at his Ritchie, wide eyed and scared in the bed, and longed to reach out and grasp his hand, give it that reassuring squeeze that everything would be alright. But with the way Ringo had reacted when he’d first realized George was holding his hand, he knew the gesture would not be received well.
“Ah, Richard,” the doctor finally said, glancing up from his paperwork to look at Ringo over his glasses, “do you know who you are?”
“Richard Starkey,” Ringo replied impatiently, “I already said that.”
“I’m talking about other things, do you know what you do for a living, where you currently live, if you have any relationships with anyone.”
Ringo furrowed his eyes in thought and George clung to a tiny sliver of hope that Ringo had just been joking, or that he was simply disoriented from just waking up and that he would be alright with just a little bit of thinking.
“I, um…n-no.”
And those were the words that brought it all crashing down right before his eyes. “Nothing?” He asked, biting his lip, “You don’t remember anything?”
“Amnesia,” the doctor said, nodding, “That’s what he’s got. It sometimes happens with people who have hit their head as hard as Richard here has. By the looks of it his long term memories have been lost, but how many we can’t be sure. He knows who he is, the barest sense of the word, but it appears that his past is gone.” He shrugged, “But otherwise he seems normal, all of his vitals are perfect, he might need to be careful of physical activity for awhile until his head heals and we’ll give him pain medication for the headaches.”
George stood up, each word of the doctor flooding him with slight panic, “What do I do?”
“Well, there are many ways to jog memories George, just talk to him, tell him things about himself, about what he does. Photos might help, as do familiar places and smells.”
“Anything else? How long does it last?” George refraiend from asking the question that was swirling inside his mind, fighting to get out. The question that went something like: How do I get my best friend back?
The doctor paused for a moment, “Well,” he said slowly, “there are cases of amnesia lasting only a few hours, but it can sometimes last for months, years even. And, though it’s extremely rare mind you, it can sometimes last forever.”
“Forever?” This was Ringo chiming in from the bed, his form looking incredibly small bundled up in the blankets and George wasn’t sure he really liked the sight of the heavy bandage wrapped around his head.
“It’s extremely rare,” the doctor repeated with a reassuring smile. He clasped George on the shoulder, “Just talk to him, with the severity of Richard’s accident I can’t be sure of his condition, but I’m sure everything will be alright. Just be patient.” With that he nodded at the both of them and walked out the door, shutting it quietly behind him.
The room remained silent for a moment or two while George stood there, contemplating what he should do. There was a tension in the room, and George felt awkward with Ringo there, something that he had never dreamed he’d ever feel. Crossing his arms over his chest he turned to his little friend in the bed, giving him a tentative smile, “So you really don’t know who I am then?”
Ringo shook his head, “Sorry,” He offered quietly, “I’m sorry I don’t.”
George nodded sadly, resolutely. “Painkillers working?”
“Yeah.”
“S’good.”
The silence clouded the room again, and George coughed awkwardly, settling his thin frame in the straight backed chair he’d spent a fitful night in, waiting, hoping for Ringo to wake up so he could tell him how sorry he was. Sorry for yelling at him, for doubting him about the damned bird. It didn’t matter anymore, especially because George had been the one who caused-
“So you and me, we’re good friends?” Ringo’s voice floated softly through the room, and George looked up sharply, having been lost in his thoughts.
He nodded, a bitter smirk attempting to work its way onto his face at the question, “Yeah…very good friends.” Try best friends, try lovers. His heart felt heavy at the knowledge that Ringo might never get his memory back, and then what would become of him? Ringo really wouldn’t need him then, and George would be left alone.
He couldn’t let that happen.
What had the doctor said? Photos, familiar people, familiar places, those were the things that would help jog Ringo’s memory. Well, couldn’t he help start the process now? “Hang on,” he said aloud, fishing in his pocket for his wallet which held the picture of Ringo and him at Hamburg, the one that George carried everywhere with him. Of course he’d never told anyone, especially Ringo, that he carried that picture around with him, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Besides, it wasn't the same Ringo anyway now, was it?
Pulling it out, he strode quickly across the room and showed it to the older man, “This is us in Hamburg, see? Good friends.” He bit his lip, trying to stifle the feeling of hope that rose in him again when Ringo studied the picture of the two of them with their arms swung around each other’s necks, beaming for the camera with their slicked hair and Ringo’s beard and George’s big ears flapping about. Would this do it?
“That’s very nice,” Ringo replied and George’s heart only fell a fraction of an inch this time, and he sighed, sitting down in the chair next to the bed and running a weary hand through his hair. Of course it couldn’t be that easy.
George bit his lip and scooted tentatively closer to the bed, fiddling with the hem of the blankets, “Ritchie?” he asked softly, “what’s it like?”
Ringo furrowed his eyebrow, “What, not knowing?”
George nodded, “Are you scared?”
The older man shrugged, “Well I suppose not,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in the bed at the way George’s tone had suddenly shifted, “I don’t remember anything, so I guess it’s a fresh start right?”
That was what George was afraid of. What if Ringo ended up not liking him anymore? What if he didn’t want to be a part of the band, if he became friends with other people and left them? What then?
“George, I really know I’m supposed to be friends with you, but if you please couldn’t just yet…” George hadn’t realized his hand had automatically searched Ringo’s out and was clutching it almost desperately.
“Sorry,” he muttered, feeling his face heat up at his behavior, “I just--”
“So we hear the little drummer boy’s awake then??” The hospital door flew open, revealing a smirking John Lennon, trailed after by Paul, Brian, and Maureen. “About time too, George over here nearly worried himself up the wall.”
“John--”
“Do you know how long it took us to convince those bloody doctors we were the closest family you had that was coming? And then they wouldn’t even believe us when Eppy said we were the Beatles.”
“John, please.”
“But don’t look so down Ringo!! You’re alive aren’t you son? Little busted up, but it doesn’t matter either way to me, the fall couldn’t have done you more damage than you’ve already got in that little head of yours.”
George finally stood up, “Christ John, he doesn’t know who you are, stop scarin’ him!”
John froze mid sentence, his mouth hanging open as his eyes narrowed, and he squinted to get a better look at the drummer. It was Paul who spoke up first.
“What do you mean George? ‘Course he knows who we are.” He turned to Ringo, eyes wary, “Don’t you?”
The drummer gave his head a little shake, his eyes full of apprehension, and Paul frowned. “What’s wrong with him then?”
“Amnesia,” came the dull reply, and George finally sagged back down into the chair, “He doesn’t remember anything.”
There was a resounding silence in the room and George could almost see his words sinking into the minds of his friends.
“Nothing?” That was Maureen, looking up from arranging the flowers she had brought on the bedside table. Ringo looked at her, and George felt some sick sort of satisfaction at the lack of the spark he normally held for her in his eyes. But then again, that nagging voice also reminded him that Ringo also looked at him like that now as well.
George nodded again, “Nothing.”
Ringo nodded, looking far too uncomfortable with everything that was going on. George felt his heart jerk in his chest at the way Ringo’s beautiful eyes darted uncertainly from face to face, and realized that no matter what he’d told George, he must be scared.
Paul coughed, shifting from foot to foot, “Well I’m Paul then, and that’s John,” He said, jerking his thumb in John’s direction, “And um, this is Maureen, and that over there’s Brian. We’re your friends, like George.” One look at Paul and George knew what was running through the bassist’s mind. It was the little things, the small sigh that passed through his lips, or the way his eyes connected briefly with John’s that gave Paul away. One look and George knew.
The band, he was saying through his eyes, what’s going to happen to the band.
It was finally Brian who broke the uncomfortable silence between them all, “Look everyone,” he said calmly, “Richard’s probably tired, we should leave him alone for awhile, let him sleep and then talk about all of this later.”
They all nodded, and George settled himself back into his chair as the rest of them prepared to leave.
“George,” Paul said, “you look half dead mate, why don’t you go home and kip it eh?”
“Well I…” he trailed off, eyes landing on the drummer once again, who hadn’t said more than ten words since he’d woken up, who looked so lost and confused. “I’m fine.”
“You’ve been here all night Geo,” Paul continued gently, and George wished he would just shut his mouth, “you need sleep.”
“But there’s no one to stay here with Rings then,” he protested, “I’ll be alright Paul, really.”
“I can stay with him,” Maureen said, eyes hopeful, “You can go sleep and then come back later when you’re feeling better George.”
“I think that’s a marvelous idea,” said Brian, “we can all take shifts if you like George, if you don’t want Ritch to be left alone.”
George glanced over at Mo, all chipper and glowing with good intentions. And really, George would have appreciated it, if it wasn’t Mo of all people, who had been dating Ringo and who had been taking up all of him and leaving none left for George and who was so sweet and pretty and had been the source of George’s jealousy for God knew how long.
George forced a smile, feeling the anger clawing to get out in the pit of his stomach, “That’d be great Mo, thanks,” he ground out stiffly, snatching up his bag and stalking past the others and out the door, “I’ll be back in four hours exactly.” He began compiling a list of every picture, every piece of writing, any scrap of something that would jog Ringo’s memory. Things that he would return within four hours time and get his precious Ringo out of Maureen’s clutches.
He was going to be the one to get Ringo’s memory back, and he wasn’t going to let anyone else get in the way.
(Comments are most definitely appreciated :D)