chapter 2
gosh
Title: Split
Author(s): charliewhats
Pairing: George/Ringo, Ringo/Maureen
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: none of this happened, i own nothing, no libel intended
At some point while Ringo had been at George's house, it had started to rain, fat grey droplets streaming down from the black sky and hammering on the windscreen. The combined effort of trundling along the slippery roads and working the windscreen wipers was apparently too much for the old car, as the bonnet was producing a stream of high-pitched noises and ominous rumbles.
Ringo had had this car since long before he was a Beatle, when he was a semi-skint Hurricane clutching a brand-new driving licence. It had been too old when he bought it, and was heavily battered around the edges, not least from drunken nights out with about six rowdy lads in the back seat. Still, it was this car that had impressed even the aloof John Lennon two years ago, and probably been one of the things that had got him into the band in the first place - after all, he could drive them to gigs.
He had a better car at home, of course, but on nights like this, nights he usually spent in George's bed or on George's sofa or in George's arms - or even when he just wanted to be ignored - this car was far more useful.
Mo was waiting outside the doctor's office, her coat pulled over her head and bedraggled strands of hair hanging around her face. Ringo jumped out and opened the passenger door for her; she smiled weakly as she climbed into the car, squeezing his hand as he sat back down. The last time Ringo had picked George up in his car, it had been raining too, and Ringo had sped past him about five times, soaking him with grey water. When George got in the car, he had earnestly told Ringo that he would probably crash into a primary school and kill them, as well as at least thirty children. It was about ten minutes before Ringo had to pull over because he couldn't see the road through tears of laughter.
"I'm not very far gone."
Ringo stared straight ahead, holding the steering wheel and gearstick with a white-knuckled grip. In the blurry windscreen he could see his own pale, shaky reflection.
"So - so we've got months to sort something out."
'Sort something out'? That sounded ridiculously simple, as if all they needed to do was make a few well-placed phone calls and the whole business would be cleared up. Never mind that this was a baby, a real, small human that needed food and shelter and would be attached to them for about twenty years - the reality of it all was only sinking in now - but there was no way that George could shrug this off, no way that Ringo wasn't going to end up hurting him.
"Ritchie?"
"Sorry," he said, though his eyes were still fixed right ahead of him, never wavering.
"I was just - thinking."
Mo glanced quickly at Ringo, her expression concerned, but then she turned back to the passenger window, gazing out at the dark roadside.
George lay spreadeagled in his head, staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling. His hair tickled the back of his neck, and despite the rain outside, he felt stickily hot under the covers. Out of the corner he watched the phone on his bedside table; he couldn't keep his eyes closed for more than a few seconds, even though he knew Ringo probably wouldn't call until tomorrow - but still, the slightest noise made him jump, and reach for the receiver.
With a soft sigh, he rolled onto his side, clutching at the bedsheets. The thin material was similar to the shirt Ringo was wearing earlier, so he pressed it to his face, the texture cool against his cheek, and felt a bit pathetic. Still - he was suddenly feeling quite tired - it seemed like an age since the two of them had had an evening all to themselves, and he felt a bit rueful that Ringo had suddenly had to disappear.
On the other hand, though, it was hardly as if he couldn't see Ringo tomorrow, or soon - the Christmas shows were in the afternoon, leaving the evenings and nights free. That was hours for each other, hours for kissing and lovemaking and perhaps just snuggling up together in the dimly lit living room, watching the first few snowflakes fall outside.
He was really starting to feel tired now.
Through half-closed eyes, he looked up sleepily again at the phone next to him. In the morning, he knew it would be OK.
A few miles away, Ringo and Mo lay beside each other in bed, both wrapped in covers, both unable to sleep. Ringo turned onto his side, leaning on his elbow and watching Mo for a couple of seconds. She suddenly broke the silence, her voice small.
"What are we going to do?"
"I don't know."
Mo bundled herself even tighter in the bedclothes, looking for a moment every one of her six years younger. Gently, Ringo took her hand, for one second moving his thoughts away from George.
"Tell you what."
"What?"
He let out a soft sigh, turning onto his back again.
"We'll get some sleep first. We'll feel better - and then, in the morning, we'll talk about it."
For a second, Mo didn't answer, and the tense silence hung in the air. Then, she spoke, quietly, almost a whisper.
"OK."
She squeezed his hand, and Ringo leant over, kissing her on the forehead like you would a child.
"Night, love."
"Night, Ritchie."
That night, George and Mo slept until the morning; it was Ringo who lay awake until the light began to stream through the window.
Title: Split
Author(s): charliewhats
Pairing: George/Ringo, Ringo/Maureen
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: none of this happened, i own nothing, no libel intended
At some point while Ringo had been at George's house, it had started to rain, fat grey droplets streaming down from the black sky and hammering on the windscreen. The combined effort of trundling along the slippery roads and working the windscreen wipers was apparently too much for the old car, as the bonnet was producing a stream of high-pitched noises and ominous rumbles.
Ringo had had this car since long before he was a Beatle, when he was a semi-skint Hurricane clutching a brand-new driving licence. It had been too old when he bought it, and was heavily battered around the edges, not least from drunken nights out with about six rowdy lads in the back seat. Still, it was this car that had impressed even the aloof John Lennon two years ago, and probably been one of the things that had got him into the band in the first place - after all, he could drive them to gigs.
He had a better car at home, of course, but on nights like this, nights he usually spent in George's bed or on George's sofa or in George's arms - or even when he just wanted to be ignored - this car was far more useful.
Mo was waiting outside the doctor's office, her coat pulled over her head and bedraggled strands of hair hanging around her face. Ringo jumped out and opened the passenger door for her; she smiled weakly as she climbed into the car, squeezing his hand as he sat back down. The last time Ringo had picked George up in his car, it had been raining too, and Ringo had sped past him about five times, soaking him with grey water. When George got in the car, he had earnestly told Ringo that he would probably crash into a primary school and kill them, as well as at least thirty children. It was about ten minutes before Ringo had to pull over because he couldn't see the road through tears of laughter.
"I'm not very far gone."
Ringo stared straight ahead, holding the steering wheel and gearstick with a white-knuckled grip. In the blurry windscreen he could see his own pale, shaky reflection.
"So - so we've got months to sort something out."
'Sort something out'? That sounded ridiculously simple, as if all they needed to do was make a few well-placed phone calls and the whole business would be cleared up. Never mind that this was a baby, a real, small human that needed food and shelter and would be attached to them for about twenty years - the reality of it all was only sinking in now - but there was no way that George could shrug this off, no way that Ringo wasn't going to end up hurting him.
"Ritchie?"
"Sorry," he said, though his eyes were still fixed right ahead of him, never wavering.
"I was just - thinking."
Mo glanced quickly at Ringo, her expression concerned, but then she turned back to the passenger window, gazing out at the dark roadside.
George lay spreadeagled in his head, staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling. His hair tickled the back of his neck, and despite the rain outside, he felt stickily hot under the covers. Out of the corner he watched the phone on his bedside table; he couldn't keep his eyes closed for more than a few seconds, even though he knew Ringo probably wouldn't call until tomorrow - but still, the slightest noise made him jump, and reach for the receiver.
With a soft sigh, he rolled onto his side, clutching at the bedsheets. The thin material was similar to the shirt Ringo was wearing earlier, so he pressed it to his face, the texture cool against his cheek, and felt a bit pathetic. Still - he was suddenly feeling quite tired - it seemed like an age since the two of them had had an evening all to themselves, and he felt a bit rueful that Ringo had suddenly had to disappear.
On the other hand, though, it was hardly as if he couldn't see Ringo tomorrow, or soon - the Christmas shows were in the afternoon, leaving the evenings and nights free. That was hours for each other, hours for kissing and lovemaking and perhaps just snuggling up together in the dimly lit living room, watching the first few snowflakes fall outside.
He was really starting to feel tired now.
Through half-closed eyes, he looked up sleepily again at the phone next to him. In the morning, he knew it would be OK.
A few miles away, Ringo and Mo lay beside each other in bed, both wrapped in covers, both unable to sleep. Ringo turned onto his side, leaning on his elbow and watching Mo for a couple of seconds. She suddenly broke the silence, her voice small.
"What are we going to do?"
"I don't know."
Mo bundled herself even tighter in the bedclothes, looking for a moment every one of her six years younger. Gently, Ringo took her hand, for one second moving his thoughts away from George.
"Tell you what."
"What?"
He let out a soft sigh, turning onto his back again.
"We'll get some sleep first. We'll feel better - and then, in the morning, we'll talk about it."
For a second, Mo didn't answer, and the tense silence hung in the air. Then, she spoke, quietly, almost a whisper.
"OK."
She squeezed his hand, and Ringo leant over, kissing her on the forehead like you would a child.
"Night, love."
"Night, Ritchie."
That night, George and Mo slept until the morning; it was Ringo who lay awake until the light began to stream through the window.