Full Fathom Five

by Anonymous

Summary:

At the start of the 1967 Formula One season in Monaco, George Harrison meets a racer whose life was about to change forever, and George inadvertently dives straight after him into the following storm.
The only question now is: is the man George followed into the fray the same man that gets pulled out?

Notes:

I know this fic might seem a little daunting for non-F1 fans, so i'll chuck a small glossary at the end of each chapter for any potentially unknown terms.

I made some exceptions to these rules that you didn't know about, but thats ok.

For the first chapter i'll put a little overview of f1 at the end.

Pls don't be put off by all this other stuff, because as I said it's around 30% F1 nonsense.

The rest of the updates will come out weekly on Friday nights, hopefully (AWST)
Minimum chapter length is 3k, max is however much I can manage.

Chapter 1: Je vais à la gloire

"Adieu, mes amis. Je vais à la gloire. Farewell my friends. I go to glory."

- Isadora Duncan

 

30/5/1967

The water lashing down from the sky streaked along the smooth Monaco track, sliding down to the sides of the track as test cars sped around the tarmac, splitting the water into tiny little rivers and waterfalls to spray at the eager fans waiting in the stands.

The rain pounded on the windshield of George’s own car, but the weather didn’t dampen his spirits as he drove around the track, the Formula One representative in his passenger seat guiding him around the route he had memorised a thousand times on his television, but had never seen in person.

It was impossible not to grin like a boy as he skidded slightly around the hairpin, and he looked to the representative, who didn’t seem to be phased by the slide.

“Looks like you do not have the proper track tyres, eh?” The representative joked, voice thick with a Spanish accent. George laughed as they zoomed into the tunnel, a brief respite from the relentless rain.

“No, I don’t suppose I do. They’re a bit expensive, I think, even for me.” He laughed, cruising smoothly around the tunnel and out back onto the track. “I don’t suppose you've got any lying around I could take back home, do you?” He chuckled, and the representative snorted.

“No, sir...But I could show you some already attached to a car.” He proposed, and George whipped to look at him with a wide grin, easily navigating his way around the memorised track with a few glances back.

“No way. Could I drive one?”

The representative whistled nervously.

“That’s not up to me, that’s for the driver to decide… But my son loves your band, I could put in a good word for you...for an autograph.”

 

//0‑0\\ 

 

One signed photo later, and on Race Day George was eagerly being led through the maze of the buildings behind the Monaco track, pass swinging around his neck and gazing eagerly around at the drivers and engineers rushing around, who were equally as fascinated by the fact that George Harrison was staring back at them.

The representative who was leading him through the labyrinth of halls was different to the Spanish man yesterday, and also had to be bribed with a signed photo to get him to agree with the plan.

The rain still lashed on the roof but the Monaco race halted for no weather. Men and women were wrapped up in coats and hats as they ran around outside, preparing the cars, track, and everything else for the race that afternoon.

More fans were piling into the stands, and for once they weren’t for George.

He followed closely behind the representative, his small entourage that had followed him to Monaco being left in their VIP box to watch the race later.

“Just through here, sir.” This representative was Italian, and he stopped at the start of a long hallway, where the foot traffic was significantly heavier and more frantic. “Door thirteen, on the right.” The representative gave a respectful dip of his head before disappearing into the stream of people bustling around, leaving George standing like a lemon in the hallway.

Alright then. Apparently that was the end of the guided tour.

George tentatively joined the rough stream of people striding into the hallway, keeping his head down from any potential fans but also craning it sideways to count the numbers on the red doors. The doors were adorned with familiar team logos, Ferrari, Ford, Lotus, all had a door to their own, and as George found number thirteen on the right, a BRM logo looked back at him.
BRM.
There was only one BRM driver in this year's race, and George knew exactly who it was.

He slid out of the flow of traffic, standing next to the door as a wave of nerves hit him like a giant with a sledgehammer. Why did this always happen to him?
He wished that stupid representative had set him up with some random driver. Why did it have to be the BRM driver?

The scarlet door screamed at him, and the brass doorknob burned white hot as George grabbed it with a shaking hand.
The people walking down the hallway never paused at the doors on the right, only ever the doors on the left.
What if he wasn’t supposed to go in? Were all of the drivers in the rooms on the right? Would he be chucked out?

His hand was bolted to the burning doorknob as he debated with himself endlessly, chickening out and then psyching himself up just to then convince himself he’d actually be executed by the BRM driver himself if he disturbed him.

What eventually spurred George to a decision was the eye contact he made with a younger girl who was passing by as George looked around desperately for an angel to save him.

Their eyes locked and George died a little inside as he saw the spark of recognition in her eyes.

“Oh my god!” She screeched, attracting the attention of half the building and suddenly all of George’s inhibitions fell away in an instant.
He yanked open the door and dove inside, slamming it behind him and fumbling for the small lock on the inside knob. His fingers slipped several times as the knob turned from the other side, but he successfully barred the entry.

He exhaled in relief as the knob rattled but held firm, lacing his hands on top of his head.

“I think you have the wrong room, lad.” George froze as a quiet scouse voice spoke up behind him, and he silently cursed every Beatles fan on earth.
He slowly turned around, lowering his hands, and came face to face with Ringo Starr.

 

Eleven time race winner, second in the last two Grands Prix, and he had only entered professional motorsport three years ago. Golden boy for BRM and icon for the North of England. And currently battling it out for top place on the points leaderboard.

He and George had risen to their respective fames almost simultaneously, but George thought it was an insult to Starr’s very name to compare himself to the driver.

“I-uh-” Starr was sitting with his feet propped up on a desk that sat between them, leaning back on a padded chair.
That was the only real furniture in the room, aside from an ice box in the corner. A stack of papers was lying on the desk, along with a red open face helmet and a set of goggles, and George could see a pair of white gloves tucked inside.
Starr himself wore a white racing suit, and his brown hair ever so slightly brushed his shoulders.
George wondered absently if the slight wave came naturally or he used a special shampoo. He also wondered if Starr’s mustache had any aerodynamic properties, but that thought was quickly snuffed out as Starr’s face lit up in recognition as George turned around.

“George Harrison, as I live and breathe!” His smile seemed to light up the room, and George almost fainted. Oh this wasn’t real.

He took a step back, and he must’ve looked pretty pale, as Starr jumped up from his desk worriedly.

“Whoa there, lad. Don’t die on me.” He chuckled, and George nodded and swallowed with some difficulty. Was that nervousness in Starr’s voice? Had he done something?

“I’m alright, don’t worry about me.” George stuttered, but Starr continued to approach, taking his arm with a kind smile. George’s eyes locked on the four shining rings he wore on his hands, as Starr lightly squeezed his forearm.

“Those fans of yours must’ve done a real number on you, eh? I’m guessing that’s what all the yelling was about, anyway.” Starr commented, “Here, nick me seat, i’ll be sitting on my arse all day soon.” George allowed himself to be led to the desk and he fell back into Starr’s chair. Insane. Insane. Insane. He was sitting in Ringo Starr’s seat. Jesus Christ, someone get the camera.

“Yeah, um, sorry for bursting in on you like this.” George finally found his voice as Starr crossed the room to the ice box, digging in and grabbing two bottles of coke.

George's cheeks flushed as Starr shook his head, the smile returning to his face along with a small laugh.

“It’s no trouble, ever!” He passed George a bottle. “I’d never miss the chance to meet you, George Harrison.” George was too busy trying not to explode with joy, surprise, and excitement to realise the coke bottle had a cap.

“Oh believe me, I feel the same. I’m a big fan!” He gushed, grasping his bottle and smiling earnestly. He watched as Starr blushed slightly, and they both went to take a sip of their drink before blinking in surprise as the caps clunked against their teeth in unison.

George barked a laugh before scanning the area for an opener, but Starr waved him off.

“It sure is strange to have you as a fan of mine, George Harrison, christ it even feels weird to say it.” Starr confessed, and George watched as the driver positioned his hand over the coke cap, hooking one of his silver rings under the cap and pulling it off cleanly with a hiss of released carbonation. George looked down at his own wedding band, tentatively starting to hook it under his own coke cap, but Starr cleared his throat before he could try. George looked up to see Starr offering his own bottle to him.

“Don’t ruin that beautiful ring, eh?” He smiled, and George thanked him as they traded drinks, Starr uncapping the other bottle and taking a long sip.

“Thanks, mate. Call me George, will you?” Starr graced him with another one of his radiant grins, and George’s bottle almost slipped through his fingers.

“Call me Ritchie, then.” George cocked his head.

“Not Ringo?” Starr shrugged as he took another sip of his drink.

“Ringo’s for the press, int’ it?” He explained “You obviously ain’t the press.” He sat on the desk next to George, who noticed now that Starr was a bit short, his thin boots just brushing the floor.

“That’s the best compliment I've ever gotten.” George joked, and Starr snorted, pushing the papers on his desk back so he could sit more comfortably. George pointed to them curiously.

“What’s that?” Starr looked down absently.

“Track notes. I’ve been driving around all morning for the prelim’s.” He said ruefully. George winced in sympathy.

“All my notes would be just: ‘Its wet’” Starr groaned melodramatically.

“Bloody awful, innit? Don’t know why I bothered taking a shower this morning, I'm just gonna get a bath in an hour anyway.” He threw his arms up dramatically, sloshing coke across the floor. “Oh, oops.”

“At least your helmet will keep your hair dry.” George pointed out, leaning back in his chair, starting to relax. Starr grimaced.

“Sure, but have you seen the way I look after the race? Hair all plastered to my head like some nonce.” He sighed, and George smiled.

“It’s a hard life, innit?” He joked, and Starr barked a laugh.

“Cheeky bugger, you. You’re right, though. I ain’t got much to complain about.”

George shrugged, draining his coke. “Everyone can complain about the weather, can’t they? It’s the British way, as far as I know.”

“Seems like the English weather always follows us, just so we can keep complaining.” They both fell into a comfortable silence, and the beating of the rain on the roof was soon the only sound in George’s ears.

“When do you go on?” George asked after a minute, and Starr checked his watch, an old leather and silver device with a crack through the face.

“Twenty minutes, just enough time to pretty myself up.” Starr drained his own bottle and took George’s empty one, jumping off the desk and setting the empties on top of the ice box.

“I reckon you look good enough now.” George blurted out, immediately burning a bright red as Starr looked back at him, openly surprised.

“Oh, thanks George.” He looked down self consciously. “I can never look good enough for the cameras, though.” He remarked, and George snorted.

“No one ever does, mate. The press in France once got this shot of me eating at a buffet and plastered it on half the papers in Paris! I looked like a right twat.” He shook his head, wincing at the memory.
Starr laughed, leaning on the wall beside the ice box.

“I suppose we all get our bad spots, eh?” George smiled and looked down at his own watch.

“Well I suppose I should head up to my box to watch this little race.” He said, an air of finality in his voice, and Starr instinctively glanced towards the door and likely to the cars beyond.

“You can head on out to the garage with me if you want. Once I get into the car and leave, it’s a few minutes until the race starts.” He offered, and George thought he would choke on air.

“Y-yeah! I could do that. If you’ll tolerate the mangy Beatle hiding around your ankles..” He fumbled, and Starr gave him a smile that surely would’ve taken George’s knees out from under
him if he were standing. Starr needed to stop looking at him like that otherwise George would do something he’d regret later.

“Don’t talk about yourself like that, Georgie. If you don’t pop me tyres you can come on tour with me some time.” He stated.
Tour?! With Ringo THE RINGO STARR?
George gave what was probably the widest smile he had given in the last few years.

“I’d love that.” He said earnestly.

“Your other friends-beatles-whatever can come too, but-” Starr rushed to include everyone else, but George just shook his head.

“Oh, this isn’t really their bag.” He said apologetically, but Starr only smiled brighter.

“Just me and you, then.” He confirmed. They grinned at each other for another moment, George’s mind racing at their prospective future-nay their actual future together.

They were interrupted by a quiet knock at the door, and a rattle of keys could be heard before the door swung open, letting the noise from the corridor outside flood inside.
A man stuck his head inside, taking in the scene before zeroing in on Starr.

“We’re finishing up, Ringo.” He said meaningfully, and he sent a curious look to George before ducking back out and closing the door.

Starr sighed and pushed himself off the wall, crossing back over to the desk and grabbing his helmet and gloves, tugging on the latter.
George got to his feet, watching Starr’s rings disappear under the white leather.

“We’ll sort the details when I get back.” Starr stated, tucking his helmet under his arm and handing his goggles to George with a wink. “Hold these, will you?” George nodded, unable to make any other noise than a strangled squeak as he recovered from the wink.

“Yeah, I-I’ll be waiting.” Ringo beamed and headed for the door, George scrambling to follow.

They walked out into the hallway, now thankfully fan-less, and crossed directly over to the opposite door. The sounds of the rain were even louder as they entered the open garage, and George’s eyes widened as he came face to face with Ringo’s car.

It was beautiful, painted a deep black with light, almost soft pink highlights.

His number, 44, was painted the same colour, and George was separated from Ringo as the men working on the car started to swarm the driver, filling him in on the finishing touches as George quietly slipped around them to get a better look at the car.
The rain was hammering so hard outside he could barely hear their words anyway.
He got down to his knees and examined the leather interior, the worn wheel and the gear shift all crammed into the slim vehicle.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” George jumped as Ringo crouched down next to him. “She’ll take us to victory.”

“Us?” George questioned, and Ringo shrugged.

“You’re part of the team now, int’ you?” He grinned, and they were once again interrupted by the man from before.

“Let’s go, Ringo.” He said firmly, and George saw the barest flicker of something foriegn in Ringo’s eyes. An emotion he couldn’t quite identify.
Ringo’s eyes were so blue, so expressive, George could get lost in them.

“Right then.” Ringo rose to his feet and George copied, standing opposite as the rest of the engineers rushed off and the managers were occupied by marshals.

“Come ‘ere.” George, spurred on by the pressure of Ringo’s team, clasped the drivers hand and pulled him in for a bear hug, squeezing him tight. It was short and sweet, and George was instantly anxious that he had crossed a line, but the soft smile on Ringo’s face assuaged his worried instantly.

“See you later, Georgie.” Ringo pulled on his helmet, securing the strap under his chin as George set his goggles on the helmet for him, attaching the band underneath the holding hooks on the back of the helmet.

Ringo’s team helped him into the car and strapped him in.

George jumped slightly as the engine roared to life, and Ringo pulled down his goggles over his eyes, sending George one last wink as he pulled effortlessly out of the garage and into the pouring rain, joining the queue of racing cars ready to line up at the start.
George watched him go, the cold wind swirling into the garage as the engineers and managers muttered to each other.

“Sir, would you like me to take you to your box? The race will start soon.” A young representative broke George out of his reverie, and he nodded wordlessly.
She led him through a side door and up to a narrow corridor, striding through several flights of stairs until she bowed him into a sheltered box overlooking the start of the race.
The course was narrow, so George could see out onto the other side of the track and into the harbour, where a few brave boats had anchored out and were getting battered by the choppy waves.

He joined the rest of his entourage at their seats at the front, the open front of the box letting in a light spray of rain and a not so light gust of wind.
He exchanged a few greetings with Pattie and Mal, passing the time before the race by enthusiastically raving about his meeting with Ringo.
They were distracted by the roar of the crowd as the cars started to line up, and George fell silent as he nervously scrutinised the cars for number 44.
He found the distinctive red helmet within a moment, pointing it out to his friends as well. Ringo stood second to pole, and George swore he could see the driver’s excited grin from where he sat.

The yelling of the crowd was almost deafening, the energy barely hampered by the lashings of rain thrown down upon them all.
The marshalls seemed satisfied by the line up of the cars, and retreated to the sidelines as the man with the checkered flags got ready.
George was on the edge of his seat as the flag was raised, and a bright flash of lightning in the distance lit up the entire track as the flag was brought down.
The cars tore away with a deafening rumble of thunder that was soon drowned out by the screeching of excited fans.

George found himself silent as the rest of his box cheered, and his eyes were glued to the number 44 as Ringo bombed down the track.
The cars swerved and swarmed as they made up places then lost them within a few moments, the temporary leaderboard being established as the faster front row cars pulled ahead and the rest of the drivers scrambled for the rest of the places and points.
From what George could see, Ringo was excelling, keeping his second place and not giving pole position any time to relax.
He could’ve sworn he could hear the effortless gear changes and the perfect bite of the engine, just the right amount of throttle as they came to the Massenet. Hell Ringo was probably heel braking too.

George was blind for a good section of the track, and he always felt a bit of relief when Ringo shot out of the tunnel on the other side.
As the laps built up cars started to spin off the track, aquaplaning into small run off areas and crunching into barriers mere meters from crowds.
It was wheel to wheel, but the first place, 71, wasn’t giving up.
George unconsciously reached for Pattie’s hand as Ringo’s back tyres slid out at the Tabac, but his grip loosened as the driver managed to regain control, making up the lost distance on 71.
As he watched Ringo fly down the route George had practically crawled around the day before, he could only imagine himself in Ringo’s place. The wet track had been daunting in a Barreiros-Dodge at 40kph, and now Ringo was driving at six times the speed in an open top with twenty other cars behind him.
George’s hands gradually tightened again on Pattie’s pale hands, his partner feeling his woes and becoming anxious herself as the laps grew and the drivers became more ravenous to make up places.

And then happened in the worst place possible, and George saw every second of it.

Ringo and 71 barrelled out of the tunnel on the tenth lap, Ringo’s front wheels sneaking past 71’s rear tyres as he came up on the inside. They sped along the track until they came parallel to the harbour front on their left, their wet weather tyres gripping desperately to the track.

But the wet weather tyres could only do so much.

A rogue wave sloshed over the harbour walls, sending a lethal sheet of water right across the chicane.

Ringo managed to keep his grip but 71 was thrown into a spin as the water snuck under his wheels, twisting anti-clockwise and slamming it’s rear wheels right into Ringo’s car, ripping off his front left wheel and throwing him into a spin and into the concrete inner wall with a deafening crunch of metal.

Ringo’s axles screeched and threw up sparks as they scraped across the ground with the still spinning car rebounding off the wall and sliding across the wet track. Number three came out of the tunnel blind and slammed into Ringo for the final blow, sending him flying off the track and into the stormy harbour below.

Notes:

A tiny little summary for F1, focusing on stuff relevant to the story.
The 'Formula' part of F1 just means the car has to be built within a strict set of regulations, which is why all the cars look very alike.

F1 drivers are part of teams for one specific manufacturer or 'constructor' like Ferrari or Mercedes, and there are typically 2 drivers per team, with two cars for each team driving in one race. A driver is signed on to their manufacturer, who also makes the car they race.

An F1 season is typically (such as the 1967 season) made up of eleven separate races that take place all around the world, with 7/11 of those races taking place in Europe.
The winner receives 9 points, the second-place finisher 6 points, with 4, 3, 2 and 1 points for positions 3 through 6, respectively.
The person with the most points at the end of the season wins the championship for that year.

Glossary (And clarifying facts)
- Seatbelts were not mandatory until 1972

- Full face helmets were not used consistently until the start of the 70s

- The Monaco track can be seen here - https://cdn.motorsportmagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/01/28094503/Monte-Carlo-1441-2.svg - and you can see each part of the track as I name them

- Pole position is the first position at the start of a race, and is decided in qualifying runs the day before the actual race.

- If you don't believe they would race in those conditions, I encourage you to search up the 1968 German Grand Prix

Chapter 2: A Piece of the Action

Summary:

In honour of the last day of Starrison week! What an event :D

Not very long but next update is Friday, which is much longer.
Heavy on the violence and angst for this chapter, but if you're a bit dodgy on the former, don't worry as there won't be much more after this, and you can skip this chapter and i'll put a summary at the end.

Ringo saw 71 spin around in slow motion, and his foot slamming on the brakes wasn’t fast enough. 

The impact of the wheels smashing into his front tyres sent him into a spin of his own, throwing his head around. The flying debris cracked his goggles, sending spiderwebs across his vision as he braced himself against the spin.

He saw the concrete barrier before he plowed into it, his exposed left axle from the collision with 71 being driven straight back into the car. 

He opened his mouth to scream but the frigid water enveloped him and his mouth was filled and water invaded his nose and rushed down into his lungs.

The freezing liquid surrounded him and Ringo’s hands started to claw at his chest, the only source of warmth still in his body coming from the excruciating burning fire in his midsection, and the pain of the liquid in his lungs making an animal instinct in his brain take control of his hands and try and rip open his chest. 

His brain screeched at him for oxygen, having not taken a single breath since the accident began, another part of his brain also screaming for him to run and another for him to fight. 

His fingers soon found the source of the pain. The front drive shaft had ripped through the side of the car and speared him through his lower abdomen.

It had impaled him through the cockpit of the car, avoiding his legs thankfully but pinning him into his seat. 

His hands pushed through the bloody water and grasped at the metal, frantically tugging at the shaft and trying to dig his fingers into the wound to push from the end of the drive shaft.

His shattered helmet finally fractured in half as a piece of the car snapped off with the force of the water, whacking against the back of his head and dragging his helmet off. 

The sudden exposure of his head to the water snapped him out of his panic briefly, his fingers stilling as they dug inside his midsection.

Looking up, that's when he noticed the murky silt harbour rushing towards his face. The panic came back in full force as he finally realised the car was flipped upside down. The muddy floor was the last thing he saw before his goggles were also dragged off, flooding his eyes with cold water filled with blood and oil.. 

He screwed his eyes shut as the rubber pulled across his retinas, the water rushing in to fill the gap they left behind. His head was now fully submerged, and he could hear the roar of the crowd and the pounding of the rain on the water’s surface.

A distant boom echoed through the water and Ringo resumed tearing at the metal, lungs burning and brain on fire. 

Then strong neoprene-covered hands brushed past his panicked ones, quickly finding the drive shaft in Ringo’s midsection.

Ringo felt the hands pause as they realised his predicament, and he opened his eyes to see several rescue divers upside down and examining his injury. 

Several hands grabbed at Ringo and started to pull him out of the car and others swam under the car and tugged at the drive shaft, and ignored Ringo as he started to thrash around in pain, the adrenaline not enough to block the agony.

They continued to pull, and Ringo clawed at the divers, the last of his precious oxygen bubbling out of his mouth as he screamed in torment, convinced that the men would rip him in half.

With a final tug that made Ringo scream even louder and his body writhe in agony, the men pulled the drive shaft from his stomach, allowing the others to pull him out of the way of the sinking car that crashed onto the harbour seabed moments later, a dark liquid staining the water as they pulled Ringo to the surface. 

Ringo continued to cry out as they broke the surface, his misery not alleviated by his freedom.

The normal rescue boat that would linger in the harbour for events like this had been forced out of the water for fear of colliding with the divers in the rough waters. 

A makeshift ladder had been frantically thrown over the side of the track and into the water, where Ringo registered half the world’s population gathering from barely opened eyes, along with about three EMTs. His eyes flickered shut again, the rain pouring down onto his face.

His cries were stifled by the water bubbling from his mouth, and he coughed and choked up half the harbour as he was towed to the ladder, dull moans escaping his lips.

“Ringo!” George? 

Ringo’s eyes fluttered closed as multiple hands grasped his racing suit, pulling him out of the water with loud shouts being ordered to give him some space goddamnit.

Water and blood dribbled down Ringo’s chin and face as he was led on the tarmac, blood pooling around the back of his head where his helmet had cracked and been ripped off.

He was rolled on his side, and a firm slap to his back sent him choking up more water mixed with blood and vomit, the stench thankfully overpowered by his washed out senses. The rain began to wash it away as rough hands started to examine him, and he whimpered weakly as fingers poked at his wound, but then a warm, steady hand grasped his own, pulling off his sodden gloves and clasping his bitterly cold fingers in a tight grip. 

“Ringo? Ringo you’ve got to listen to me ok, you’ve got to open your eyes you can’t sleep right now!” George’s voice was hoarse but firm, his hand squeezing Ringo’s to emphasise his point. 

But George didn’t understand because everything hurt so much and he could barely breathe-and-everything-was-touching-him-but-no-one-was-there. 

“It hurts, Georgie.” Was all he could manage, and George’s hand tightened even further.

“W-well that’s good, right? Because it means you’re not dead. Because- because you’d go to heaven and nothing hurts in heaven.” George said with wavering conviction, but Ringo clung onto his words like a lifeline.

“Really?” He questioned, and George gave a lighthearted negative noise as pounding footsteps drew nearer, and clattering wood made Ringo guess a stretcher was being placed beside him. 

“Mate you’re gonna have to move-“ an unfamiliar voice demanded, but to Ringo’s relief the voice of his race manager cut him off.

“No, let him stay.” 

Ringo cried out as he was hefted onto the stretcher, the unexpected movement jolting his wound. His eyes were still screwed shut, but he could sense that George was at his side in an instant, and Ringo could feel his warm breath on his cheek. 

“Alright they’re gonna take you away in a sec, Ritch, I can’t go but I’ll get to you as soon as I can, ok?” Ringo’s hand was cold as George’s hand slipped out of his grasp, a dark fog swirling in his brain that filled his mouth with cotton and prevented him from replying.

He heard men yelling at him to stay awake but Ringo’s head lolled to the side, the voices growing fainter and the feeling of the rain on his skin softening.

Notes:

Summary: Ringo POV on his crash and fall into the harbour. He gets a drive shaft through his stomach D:

Like I said in the previous chapter, they didn't have seatbelts until 1971!
Also you don't have to suspend your disbelief about people driving into the harbour!
https://f1i.com/images/269232-ended-monaco-harbour.html

Chapter 3: Our Private Little War

Summary:

5,290 words

Notes:

I know it's a late post but I had an event

I hope everyone has a good day

George could feel John’s eyes on his back. 

The hospital chair was uncomfortable enough, but the addition of John’s piercing gaze made it almost unbearable. 

They had only been allowed into the hospital room this evening, the previous day too hectic to allow such low priority visitors. In a way it was fortunate, as it had allowed John to fly out to be with him, although the feeling of his eyes on the back of his neck was starting to make George wish the plane had crashed.

Against his will, George’s heel started to tap on the bleached linoleum floor, creating a soft tapping noise that contrasted against the soft beeping of the machines. 

His eyes traced the long wires snaking out of the machines, following up to the bed in front of him where they disappeared underneath a blanket. 

The blanket covered Ringo’s eerily still body, leaving only his upper shoulders and head visible. 

He had a large bandage over his forehead, and specks of red were visibly seeping through the white material, albeit slowly.

The steadily beeping machines were the only sign of life. 

Eventually John’s burning gaze was too much, and George broke the silence. 

“Can I help you, John?” He said quietly, and John shifted slightly.

“Can I talk to you outside?” George noticed his gentle tone but it didn’t soften his own hard reply.

“No. Talk here.” John made a noise of acquiescence and stepped into George’s field of view, holding a small stool and sitting near the end of Ringo’s bed. 

He fiddled with his hands slightly as George made no effort to open the conversation, his eyes fixed on the bed. 

“Brian’ll be here soon, but I wanted to, uh, talk first.” John said slowly, and George’s eyes slid to him curiously. “I suppose Paul, Pete, and Brian and I were just wondering what you’re thinking right now, because we- uh, we heard you were friends with Ringo and everything-”
“I am still friends with him.” George interrupted sharply, and John dipped his head in acknowledgement. 

“Right, of course, but we’re wondering what you’re planning. I mean no one certainly wants to abandon their friends, but we’re...we’re not everyone, y’know?” John said awkwardly, and George gave a low hum.

“What are you saying, John?” He asked bluntly. 

“What are you going to do?” John laid it out bare. “Are you gonna take a break and spend some time with Ringo… when he uh, gets out of here… or are you being here for him because no one else is?” 

The silence was long and filled with a tension George didn’t care to break. He could see it from John’s point of view, honestly. He’s just met Ringo and now it looks like he’s going to ditch the band to stay at his bedside. 

“It’s up to him. If he wants me to stay, then I’ll take a break. We’re not doing anything with the album anyways. If he doesn’t want me, then it's not an issue.”

“And how long are you going to wait?” 

“As long as I need to.” George knew what John was implying. He had heard the statistics alongside George this morning once the doctors and nurses had done all they could. 

It was in Ringo’s hands now.

//0‑0\\ 

 

Brian arrived the next day, and George spent more energy than truly necessary avoiding him. 

He left his hotel room early, walking the short distance to the condemned race track to watch the swarms of people cleaning up the track so the whole course could be dismantled.

He managed to pass through the crowds and into the buildings that he had been led through the on that fateful day by using his old pass and keeping his head down, weaving through the sea of people again, although this time the atmosphere held a thickness that could only be attributed to the crash that was undoubtedly on many minds.

He slipped into Ringo’s garage, and he bit his lip at the sight of the tangled wreck that was once a F1 car sitting quietly on the concrete. 

Strangely, the garage was mostly empty, save for a few men in overalls that were gazing at the car idly, and a man George recognised as Ringo’s race manager sitting on a bench with a bowed head. 

George approached, feeling a kinship in the man.

“Hey mate, you alright?” George asked quietly, crossing his arms awkwardly and cocking his head. The race manager looked up in surprise before relaxing slightly.

“Oh, it’s only you. I thought you was one of those bastard reporters.” He grumbled “Yeah, I'm fine. I’m not the one to be worried about though, am I?” George grimaced, shrugging his shoulders.

“No, not really.” 

“Have you seen him yet?” There was no question as to who was being referred to. 

“Yeah I have, actually. I was in the hospital for a bit yesterday.” George explained, picking at a loose thread on his jumper. The rain had stopped but the bitter wind still whipped through the Monaco streets, and George’s emergency jumper had come in handy. 

“How’s he lookin’?” George felt his jaw tighten slightly as the image of Ringo’s comatose body flickered in his vision. 

“As best as can be expected. He hasn’t woken up yet.” 

They sat in silence for several moments until the race manager started to hum, eyes looking anywhere but George before they eventually settled upon him. 

“So you’re George Harrison then? One of them...Beatles?” The man had a particular way of pronouncing the band name that other northerners sometimes shared, saying it as ‘Beat-uhls’. 

“Yeah...You’re Ringo’s manager?” He questioned, and the man shook his head. 

“No, that's Sellers. I’m just his race manager. I handle everything when he races.” George nodded in understanding. “My name is Lou, by the way.” 

“Have you known Ringo long?” Lou shook his head.

“No. He hasn’t been racing for long, and BRM put us together.” A somber silence fell after Lou’s statement, and George wondered if Ringo’s career had just been cut short. 

“Do you think he’ll keep racing after this?” There was an unspoken ‘if’ in George’s statement, which Lou gracefully ignored. 

“I don’t know. I’m down here so early because I've got a meeting soon, so i’ll guess I'll find out.” Lou said plainly, and George gave him an incredulous look.

“You’re not going to kick him out when he’s lying half dead in the hospital, are you?!” Lou winced.

“Hey, mate, it’s not my decision. But I know how these bastards think. He’ll be out of the game for a while, and time is money.” George scoffed in disgust.

“What fucking animals.” He spat, and Lou nodded sympathetically.

“It’s the quick and the dead in this sport, unfortunately.” 

 

//0‑0\\ 

 

Brian was waiting outside Ringo’s hospital room when George made it back, tie ever so slightly askew and talking rapidly to Mal.
“-and so now there’s cash- George! Come here! I need to speak with you.” Brian spotted George from the corner of his eye, and George silently complied, casting a hopeful glance into Ringo's room to see if there had been any change in his condition.

But still the man lay silent as ever. 

“Good to see you Brian, Mal.” George greeted, and Mal smiled and gave him a comforting shoulder clap. 

“How are you, George?” 

“Grand, Mal, just grand.” Brian took in his slightly disheveled appearance and sighed, but pressed on. 

“Now George, I’m sure John has talked to you about some things but I just wanted to know what your plans are with all this.” Brian had lowered his voice substantially, and George saw him glance around to see if their empty hallway was still empty.

“Well, I dunno. I guess I'm just waiting for Ringo to wake up.” Brian nodded understandingly.

“Well that’s fine. I know you boys haven’t been working on the album as much recently so a break won’t affect you too much, is what Martin is telling me.” George blinked. It was as simple as that? 

“I-uh- thanks Bri.” Brian gave him a quick smile. 

“It’s quite alright. I’ll talk to the others and see what their plans are, too. I know John was planning on staying here, but I think Paul and Pete weren’t too sure about flying out.” George nodded.
“Where are you and John staying?” He questioned, and Mal answered.

“Some backwater hotel about an hour away. Anything nearer is booked out for the race.”

 

//0‑0\\ 

 

George’s own hotel was nice, having been booked over a year ago with Brian’s help. He and Pattie shared a room, of course, and Mal was just down the hall. 

When George returned that night, Pattie had returned from a day of exploring Monaco by herself, and George could see two slips of paper in her hands. 

“What’ve you got there, love?” He toed off his shoes and tossed his jumper on the end of their bed, flopping down onto the expensive sheets with a tired groan. 

The reporters camped outside of the hospital had been ravenous that afternoon, and Mal had to practically carve his way through the throng to get George to their car. 

They had screamed and yelled for comments and status updates, and it was slightly surreal to not be the center of attention for the day, as all the journalists cared about was Ringo. 

But the soft silken sheets slowly started to melt his worries away, and he cracked open an eye to watch Pattie’s back as she sat on her side of the bed, still holding the two slips of paper. 

“Our plane tickets.” She said quietly, and George gazed at her back, biting his lip.

“Oh yeah… when’s the departure date?” 

“Friday.” Today was Tuesday. “Are you going to use it?” A long silence fell upon the couple. George knew he was staying, but would Pattie stay with him?

“No.” He said at last. “No, and John’s staying too.” Pattie chuckled, a beautiful sound that lifted the corner of George’s mouth. Like Ringo’s laugh did. 

“Well I assumed he would. He just got here.” George hummed, turning onto his side to face Pattie’s back fully.

“Are you staying?” This time it was Pattie’s turn to be silent. 

“I don’t know, George. You know i’d support you until the end of time but you have to be here for me to help you. You left this morning before i had woken up, and those stupid reporters almost tore me to pieces after they wouldn’t let me into the hospital after you. Thank god Mal was there, George, otherwise you’d be married to a-a headless torso !” Pattie took several deep breaths as George sat up, alarmed. 

“Oh christ i didn’t know that, you-I’m sorry, love.” He scooted across the bed to sit next to her, rubbing her shoulder gently. “I didn’t think-”

“That’s the problem, George. We’ve been married for a year but as soon as this guy Ringo comes into the picture it’s like you’re married to him instead.” She laughed, but George turned away as he blushed. 

“I just want to be there for him.” He said earnestly, turning back.

“I know, Georgie, I know...But you just met him and now look at you!” He furrowed his brow at Pattie’s exasperated words.

“It’s like it's me in that hospital bed! You’re moping about with your head in a rain cloud and abandoning me at the crack of dawn!”

“Ringo’s in a coma! I’d do the same if it were you!” 

“Yes! You’d do the same if it was your wife, not some driver you barely know!” 

George couldn’t take it anymore. He burst up from the bed and stalked across the room, yanking open the balcony doors and letting the wind blast into his face. 

“I know , ok? I know! I’m just as confused as you are, love! It’s just- he’s different , ok? I met him and it was like we were friends for years… an-and like we’re old friends who just met, y’know? And now- and now he’s lying in that room- and oh god hun you should see him… he’s hooked up to so many machines, they’re doing it all for him. He can’t even breathe  on his own.” He closed his eyes against the force of the raging wind, inhaling deeply and wondering why his eyes were growing wet. 

The wind stung his cheeks and the salt of his tears touched his lips. 

Warm hands suddenly enveloped his hand grasping the balcony door, and he allowed them to push the glass door shut, leaving a gentle silence that he hadn’t realised was being suffocated by the wind. 

Soft lips met his own, kissing his tears away, and he opened his eyes as Pattie took his hands in her own, bringing them together as she broke the kiss. 

“It’s ok, baby. I’ll stay for however long you need, and when Ringo wakes up, we can all go back home together, ok?” 

He closed his eyes, fresh tears tumbling down his cheeks as Pattie’s love glowed in his heart. 

//0‑0\\ 

 

By the next evening the weather had cleared considerably, and George was able to open the balcony doors in Ringo’s room without having a small tornado blast through.

More good news had come through as well, with Ringo’s condition apparently improving somewhat having been taken off a ventilator and breathing on his own, although George now watched the driver lie in his bed, still as deathly still as the last four days he had seen him. 

George sat near the open doors, the soft evening breeze cooling his burning anxiety. Mal sat across from him, John down the hall. 

He wasn’t sure why John was staying by his side, why he was leaving Paul back in London to sit in some sterile hospital as George watched a comatose man,  but he appreciated it. 

Loud footsteps down the hall broke George out of his reverie, and he blinked as Mal got to his feet curiously, sliding his hands into his pockets as he approached the open doors of the hospital room. 

“Whatcha doin’ mate?” John’s voice echoed into the quiet room, and the footsteps didn’t pause.

“Very busy, sorry!” The voice held a strong London accent, but George could have sworn he heard a German accent too. 

A man in a fine suit and moustache flecked with grey burst into the hospital room like a whirlwind, John trailing behind him. 

He brushed past Mal like he was a child, despite being a few inches shorter, and immediately zoned in on the telephone on the sideboard next to Ringo’s bed. 

He grabbed the unit and immediately started to dial, leaving George to scramble up and look at John and Mal in confusion. 

“Oi, you can’t just come in here-!” George began, but the man walked over to the balcony, dropping the telephone base on another convenient side table when the phone line ran out, and standing at the doors with the handset at his ear. 

He looked back to George dismissively, holding up a hand.

“Did you hear him? He said you can’t-!” This time John was cut off as whoever the man was calling picked up, and he started to talk at the speed of light in German, likely reciting the entirety of War and Peace in a few seconds. 

George looked over to John again, who was staring at the man with a look of focus on his face that George didn’t think was possible for John. 

“Alright mate, come on out.” Mal stepped forward, but John held up a hand.

“No no, I think he’s talking about Ringo.” He said hesitantly, and Mal paused, looking to George for a second opinion, but George just shrugged. John knew the most basic of German, but it was more than George remembered. 

“- Sag ihm, er soll Liam rausschmeißen, oh Gott, ich muss gehen.” The man put the phone down with a snap, and all eyes turned to him. “So, who are you?” He demanded, and George almost had an aneurysm. 

He stepped protectively in front of Ringo’s bed and threw the question straight back to him.

“We could ask you the same! Who just barges right into someone’s hospital bed and nicks their phone?!” The man arched an eyebrow and folded his arms. 

“His manager, that is who. Now I feel like i’m owed an answer from you three, who I have never seen before and are camped out in my boy’s room!” He snapped, his German accent sneaking into his voice and taking George straight back to his teenage years of being yelled at by angry Kaiserkeller customers and staff. 

“We’re friends of his.” He said firmly, and the man scoffed. “We’re Beatles for god’s sake!”

“Not likely. Any git with a grin can say that. Now get out before I call security on you.” He snapped, and held out a knife hand to the door. 

George, John, and Mal stood frozen for a moment, eyes flicking to each other in shock. “Are you lot DEAF? Get OUT!” The man barked, and John slowly backed out of the room, and George could hear his footsteps squeaking on the linoleum floors as he ran away down the hall.

George watched him leave but stood his ground, and he heard Mal step up behind him.

“George, we’re not going to win this one.” He said quietly, and George dipped his head slightly, staring the man dead in the eye as he still held out his hand to the door. 

“You don’t think?” George looked to the bed, to Ringo still covered in wires and machines. 

“No, he’s his bloody manager for christ's sake.” The mention of a manager brought George back to his conversation with Ringo’s road manager Lou the previous day, and he clenched his jaw slightly.

“You’re his manager?” George cocked his head to Ringo, and the man gave him an irritated glare. 

“God, you really are deaf, aren’t you?” George ignored his comment and pressed on.

“Then what’s your name?” 

“Sellers. Now. Get. Out.” Lou had mentioned Sellers. George huffed frustratedly, his last lifeline cut. 

“Come on, George.” Mal began to pull at his sleeve, but pounding footsteps down the hall made everyone, even Sellers, look to the door. 

The footsteps got louder and louder until a very sweaty John and a bewildered Brian came rushing in. 

“ Him!” John gestured to Sellers, who lowered his hand as he looked to the two men in bewilderment.

“Epstein? What the devil are you doing here?” Brian took one look at the scene and gave a sigh so deep George swore it ruffled his hair. 

“Pete, you know these are my boys! You’ve met them before for christ sakes!” Sellers looked to George, John, and Mal with newfound curiosity. 

“Well they didn’t look like this.” Sellers stared at Mal. “You’ve changed, Paul.” 

“ NO-”

 

//0‑0\\ 

 

“Pay up, John!” 

“Pattie, you've cleaned me out!” John whined, but placed two twenty dollar bills in her outstretched hand. 

George smirked as he watched from across the monopoly board, his own coffers funded by all the train stations and most of the blue places. Pattie dominated the rest of the board, managing to sweet talk Mal into selling her the last green place to take the whole row. Mal was barely hanging onto his three yellow places, and John’s pink places were now in Pattie’s sights. 

“Well you know my offer always stands!” Pattie smirked, but John shook his head ruefully.

“You’ve a thief, love, a daylight robber!” George cackled but quickly reprimanded his bandmate.

“Watch your tongue you cheeky bastard.” He whacked John’s socked foot as they sat in Pattie and his hotel room. Mal laughed as well.

“You’re just annoyed you can’t bully Pete out of his houses, John.” Mal added, and John scoffed. 

“I did never. Pete was always willing!” Pattie gave him a deadpan look.

“Last time you made him sell you King’s Cross Station for twenty quid.” She accused 

“Don’t forget the pack of jelly babies too! That was part of the deal!” John protested, and George frowned.
“John, Pete is allergic to liquorice.” John shrugged but looked down at his meagre funds. 

“Yeah, well there were other flavours in the pack.” 

“But you had eaten all the other ones, John.” Mal laughed, and John sniffed. 

“Well no harm done…”
“Pete ate six.” 

“That was his fault.” 

“He went into anaphylactic shock.” 

“It wasn’t that bad.” 

“Pete was in a coma for three days.”  

“Again, not that bad.” 

John threw down his money, albeit not a very dramatic act as he had two ten dollar bills and one single dollar bill, and crossed his arms.

“I don’t like this game anymore.” He sniffed, and snatched up his silver piece, the boot, and flicked it at Mal, who threw back his own wheelbarrow piece.

Pattie clutched at her own battleship piece before it could be used as ammo, but George wasn’t so lucky, as he watched his top hat plink off Mal’s glasses, a minute crack appearing on the glass. 

The four of them froze, and out of the corner of his eye George could see John’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates. 

John suddenly screeched and scrambled up, scattering the bank box beside him and sending paper bills flying up between him and Mal, who was also leaping to his feet. 

“GET BACK HERE JOHN!” 

“MAL! I HAVE A CHILD! DON’T MAKE HIM AN ORPHAN!” John’s foot slipped on the board, and he dashed on all fours to the door, yanking it open as Mal grabbed his ankle and yanked him back, hoisting him up like a hooked fish as John thrashed and clawed at the ground. 

George watched the scene amusedly, fiddling with a green house that had been thrown into his mouth as Mal had darted across the board. 

He looked over to Pattie, who was starting to gather up the scattered monopoly pieces as she watched Mal shake John as he held him upside down by the ankle and made him say sorry and promise to never whine again, like the scene was a particularly interesting football match. 

She looked up as George gathered up all the money near him, handing it to her as he started to pick all the houses and hotel pieces out of the carpet. 

“So, how was your day?” She asked with a smile, smoothing out crumpled notes and dividing property cards into their separate colours. George shrugged with a returning smile, ordering up the houses and hotels into red and green. 

“Good. It’s very quiet in the hotel, so it's peaceful.” Pattie hummed, but George barely heard it over John screeching and begging for mercy. 

“It must feel a bit lonely in there.” George nodded. 

“Yeah there’s no other patients nearby, so we’re always alone.” He explained, but Pattie shook her head. 

“I meant for Ringo.” She said slowly, causing George to frown. 

“How? He’s in a coma?” Pattie fiddled with a paper note, rolling and unrolling it between her fingers. 

“I was talking to one of the track doctors yesterday, when you were in the hospital. They say that some coma patients say they could hear when they were in their coma.” George’s eyebrows shot up and the monopoly pieces tumbled from his fingers. 

“Really?” He breathed, and Pattie nodded.

“Apparently some could feel if you squeezed their hand too. Only some, but that’s more than none.” George nodded in agreement, bowing his head as he thought back to the empty hospital room they had left that afternoon.

Before, he believed a coma was just like Ringo was sleeping, and that he could just wake up when he was ready...but if he could hear everything around him, it would be like being stuck in your own body, hearing people talk but being unable to reply. 

In some selfish part of him, George wished Ringo could hear him so he’d know George had stuck by him. 

But every other part of him was terrified of even the prospect of being trapped like Ringo was. 

He wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy, not even John!

Speaking of which…

“Oi John!” Both Mal and John stopped pissing around, and the man who had been called looked between Mal’s legs curiously. “Did you bring your guitar tonight?” The upside down man nodded.

“Yeah it’s in my car- Wait why?” But George ignored him and turned to Pattie.

“I’ll be back soon, babe.” He kissed his bewildered wife on the nose and sprang up, crossing over to Mal and digging in a helpless John’s pockets. 

“Oi! Stop that! It’s my car! ” John pawed at George’s hands as the younger man found his car keys with a triumphant grin, and he clapped Mal on his big shoulder. 

“If you could hold him there for a bit, I'll love you forever.” Mal gave a hearty laugh as George darted out of the room, closing the hotel door behind him as he made for the lift. 

He twirled John’s keys around his finger thoughtfully as the lift sank, unsure if he had the guts to do what he had just planned just the moment before. 

The lift dinged open before he could back out, and so the only way onward was forward. 

The hotel lobby was empty, just a few staff taking the late shift, and so George made a quick exit to the dark car park, locating John’s rental car and opening the stiff doors. 

Inside was a battered guitar case, and George flicked it open to take a look at the acoustic Gibson inside, the same model of his own. 

He grinned and snapped the case shut, closing the back doors and hopping in the driver’s seat. 

The Monaco roads were exceptionally dark, but few others were on the road at this late hour.

The drive down to the hospital was short, hell George had walked it in the days before, but he didn’t fancy lugging the guitar with him, so finding a parking spot in front of the hospital was welcome. 

However he immediately spurned the front hospital doors, instead carrying the guitar around to the side of the building where several second story balconies overlooked low buildings in front of the Monaco harbour. 

A streetlight in the car park to his left provided his only light, so he was squinting heavily as he reached the base of the building, looking up at the three most likely balconies before securing the guitar on his back and searching for a way to climb up.

The balconies were relatively close together, so he needed only to reach one and he could access all of them. 

A nearby dumpster was the golden ticket, and his foot only punched through the rusted metal once before he got a grip on the bottom of the metal railings lining the balcony and could heave himself up with an embarrassing groan. 

All the rooms had a dim light flickering from their large windows, and George could only imagine the newspaper headlines as he peered through the glass of the first balcony. 

The first room was a clear no, as the person in the bed was wrapped up like a mummy and George could only be thankful Ringo wasn’t that bad. 

He made the leap to the next balcony, and it was a quick jump to the next room when he saw a nurse and doctor in a white coat attending to a figure in a bed. 

George’s breath was in his throat, and his pounding heart forced roaring blood into his ears as he crouched on the third balcony, praying the doctor and nurse hadn’t seen him. 

He shuffled until he was at the far side of the platform, hoping the darkness would hide him even if the staff did come out to investigate. 

His eyes were glued onto the second balcony doors as his breath slowly evened out as it became clear that if they had seen him, they would’ve done something by now. 

He exhaled slowly, gaze casually flicking to the inside of the third room, and he was stopped mid exhale by the sight of a familiar man with a familiar mustache lying in the bed. 

He grinned and rose to his full height, crossing to the balcony doors and examining the simple latch that he knew from that morning had kept the doors closed. 

He managed to lift it with a folded over guitar string, and a cool breeze followed him into Ringo’s hospital room as he shut the doors behind him with a soft click. 

The actual door to the hospital room was closed, with the only source of light coming from dim bulbs running down the hall and the blinking interfaces of Ringo’s machines.

George was glad that the need for a ventilator had passed, as the shaking rattle of the machine had made his skin crawl, and now the room was peacefully quiet.

He remembered Pattie’s words, and the reason for his breaking and entering, and quietly announced his presence. 

“Uh- Hey Ringo. It’s um- George, from the race.” George didn’t expect a response, but it was saddening that his only reply was the soft beep of a heart rate monitor. 

He pressed on, taking off the guitar and setting it on the side table. 

“I don’t know if you can tell, but it's late...real late, in fact. Uhm, eleven forty-nine to be precise…. But my wife just told me that some people in comas can hear things going on around them, and I didn’t know that… and I thought if I were you i’d be lonely, so I-I stole John’s car and his guitar, and i’m gonna play you a song, alright?” He lifted the guitar out of the case and pulled a chair with his foot so he was beside Ringo’s bed, taking an unconscious moment to study Ringo’s face. 

He looked calm and tranquil, like he could open his eyes at any moment if his alarm clock rang to signal a new day. 

His hair had grown all over the place, with the nurses attempting to sweep it out of his face tenderly. A scruffy beard had started to grow, and Ringo’s aerodynamic mustache was messed up. 

His hair flopped over the white bandage still on his forehead, although thankfully the blood was gone by now. The pale material matched the pallor of Ringo’s skin, almost uncannily.

George snapped out of his reverie with a blink, and strummed gently as he cleared his throat. 

“Uh- this one is by Ricky Nelson. A real nice one, if I do say so myself.” He cleared his throat again and his fingers found the opening chords, humming slowly along. 

“There’s a place where lovers go…” The song was slow and mournful, echoing past love and loss through simple chords and slow guitar. 

“In the town of broken dreams, the streets are filled with regret.” George made sure to sing quietly, his voice barely louder than the soft strumming of his guitar. He closed his eyes as he continued, putting his focus in the smooth notes of the song. The chords formed easily under his fingers, calluses ensuring each note was hit.

“Maybe down in Lonesome town, I can learn to forget…” He repeated it twice, drawing out the last words as his guitar echoed the last notes. 

The last note filled the air, and George exhaled slowly, listening to the beautiful sound of the guitar. 

His hands still gripped the guitar, but his eyes flew open as a cold hand touched his own. 

“You ever consider...a career in showbiz?” A hoarse scouse accent managed to force out.

Chapter 4: All Our Yesterdays

Summary:

"And all our yesterdays have lighted fools. The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle. Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player."
- William Shakespeare, Macbeth

4,963 words

George’s eyes flew open and he met the gaze of Ringo, those deep blue eyes looking right back at him. 

He broke out in a huge smile, instinctively grabbing the hand that had touched his own. It was still worryingly cold, but Ringo squeezed his hand weakly and smiled as George started to laugh in relief.

“Jesus Christ, Ringo!” Was all he could say, and Ringo started to laugh too as George brought his other hand to his face, hiding his shining eyes as his other hand held Ringo’s like it was a lifeline. 

“S-sorry about all the fuss. I was always the dramatic one” Ringo’s voice was rough and scratchy, and it hurt George’s ears just to hear it. 

He shook his head and brought his hand away from his eyes, unclipping the guitar and setting it on the floor to allow him to envelop Ringo in a gentle hug. 

He could feel the rough bandages on his neck, and Ringo’s hospital gown rustled quietly as George squeezed gently.
“Don’t apologise for anything, ok?” He heard Ringo hum into his shoulder in reply, and small sniffles did not go unnoticed from either of them as they broke apart. 

Their hands remained joined as George wiped his eyes, overcome with a mix of relief, shock, and happiness. 

“God, this is just insane… I don’t know what to do.” He chuckled, and Ringo squeezed his hand again.

“I heard you, y’know. All the time.” Ringo’s voice broke at the end, and now it was George’s turn to squeeze the other’s hand, which was slowly warming in his grip. “I’m sorry for Sellers-” George laughed and ducked his head.

“Stop apologising you daft bugger. It’s all fixed now, he and Brian, our manager, are the best of mates.” Ringo took several moments to reply, his voice rusty from disuse. 

“I didn’t think that was possible.” He chuckled weakly, but winced as the movement jarred the mass of bandages around his midsection. George sat up in alarm, but Ringo waved their clasped hands in dismissal. 

“It’s fine.” He whispered. “I should probably let them know I'm awake though.” He said dejectedly, eye’s flicking to the door. 

George looked too, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of Ringo’s hand. 

“I’ll be back in the morning… if you want.” He tacked on the last bit with a strangled hesitancy, and Ringo looked at him amusedly. 

“Of course I do, Georgie. Else I would’ve screamed bloody murder if i woke up to see a mysterious man in my room.” George gave a half smile and gave the hand in his own one last comforting squeeze that he hoped conveyed more than just pressure, before letting it fall from his grasp. 

“See you in the morning then.” He grinned and picked up John’s guitar, hoping Ringo didn’t see his wet eyes in the darkness, and set it in the case. 

The latches locked with a click, and soon George was unlocking the balcony doors and climbing down into the darkness.

Back in the hotel, a very confused Pattie, John, and Mal were even more confused when an ecstatic George burst into their hotel room with a loud ‘HE’S AWAKE’

 

//0‑0\\ 

 

The next day George practically skipped out of the hotel, dragging an amused Pattie along beside him.

The day seemed so much brighter, the skies so clear despite the beginnings of a storm brewing over the Mediterranean sea. 

He babbled to Pattie about the previous night, about how he scaled the building with a  guitar strapped to his back, the owner of whom was already at the hospital with Brian. 

They strolled down the Monaco streets, with even the population seemingly happier with the news that Ringo was awake being announced a few hours ago. 

Pattie listened patiently like the saint she was, nodding along as she ate a banana that she had bought from a local vendor, as George had dragged her out of the hotel before she could get any breakfast. 

She smiled at George’s elation, watching practically swan down the street and wave to any shocked fans. 

The hospital staff watched them bemusedly, hands stilling as they attached a man's leg back to his body or turned a woman's head back around so she faced forwards.

When they reached Ringo’s room however, George’s excitement collapsed like an igloo in the sun, slowly melting as he and Pattie strode into the hallway and were greeted by a closed door and a very grave looking Brian. 

“Morning Pattie, George.” He greeted them, giving them a tight smile. 

George furrowed his brow, looking over his manager’s shoulders into the small window on the hospital door. 

He could see half of what looked like Sellers, but not much else. 

“What’s all the fuss about?” Pattie questioned, and Brian shifted uncomfortably. 

“The doctor saw Ringo a few minutes ago and gave him the details on his accident, and then Sellers told him they have a meeting with his racing team when he gets discharged, so I think he’s managed to work out what’s going to happen.” George looked back to Brian in surprise.

“They really are kicking him off the team?” Brain gave an uncharacteristic shrug.

“I don’t know. That’s what he thinks will happen, and I'm inclined to agree somewhat. These championships are brutal, and it’s the middle of the season, so BRM, his team, are likely doing damage control for their chances at a World Title.” 

“But that would be like kicking George out of the Beatles if he broke his arm!?” Pattie protested, but Brian shook his head.

“More like if a fan broke his arm. I overheard the doctor, and it’s not pretty. I know those cars have ridiculous forces throwing them around, and if I had two hundred stitches holding me together, I wouldn't be eager to chance smashing into a wall again.” 

Brain explained calmly. George’s gaze flicked back to the door, although nothing could still be seen. 

“Can I go in?” Brian held up a finger and strode over to the door, knocking twice and sticking his torso inside when a quiet ‘yes?’ came from inside. 

“Apologies for the interruption, but George is here.” 

George heard a quiet swear and muffled conversation before a deep inhale. 

“Let him in.” Sellers replied faintly, and Brian nodded before looking back at George and waving him forward. George looked to Pattie, who nodded. 

“I’ll wait here.” She promised, and pushed him gently over to Brian, who held the door open for him. 

Brain shut the door behind him, and then George was alone with Ringo and Sellers. 

The latter was leaning against the wall directly opposite Ringo, with folded arms and a bowed head. He didn’t look up as George entered, but Ringo did.

He was sitting upright in his bed, wearing a white t-shirt that George hadn’t seen before with the bedsheets pooled in his lap. George met his red eyes, and as he approached his bedside, Ringo sniffed. 

“Mornin’ Ritch.” He greeted with a small smile, and Ringo couldn’t find the energy nor happiness to return it. 

“How you doin’ George?” He sniffed again and wiped his eyes with a corner of his bedsheet, wincing slightly as he pulled his stitches. 

“I think I should be asking you that one.” George joked quietly, and this time Ringo managed a half smile. 

“Well I'm about as good as I'm gonna get right now.” He said plainly, and George could see the tightness in his shoulders.

“What’s the damage?” Ringo gave a weak chuckle.

“Two hundred stitches in my stomach, twenty on my head, back and front…a broken ankle…” He trailed off, and Sellers spoke up from the corner.

“Don’t forget the ribs.” He added, and Ringo nodded.

“And six cracked ribs.” He finished, and George whistled in sympathy. 

“You might need to go to the doctor for that.” He smirked, then looked down to Ringo’s chest. “What’s the stitches down here for then?” He gestured to his own chest, and Ringo looked to Sellers.

“What did they say it was? The axel?” 

“Drive shaft.” Sellers corrected, and Ringo nodded.

“Yeah, that was it. Drive shaft went ‘ hyaah!’ ” He mimed stabbing himself in the stomach, and George grasped the edge of the bed, knuckles whitening. 

“Some crash then? What’s next?” 

“Well as long as I don’t fall out of bed and rip open my stitches, I can- uh, go home at the end of the week.” He shot a look to Sellers, but George didn’t catch his reaction.
“What’d your team say? I said hello to Lou, but aside from that…” Ringo cocked his head and looked down at his lap, and Sellers' careful tone came from behind. 

“We think he’s going to be removed from the team.” Sellers explained, and George looked back to him then at Ringo.

“Seriously?” Ringo shrugged.

“Surely Lou would’ve told you something like this would happen.” 

“And your manager Epstein would’ve known.” George just shrugged helplessly.

“They did, I just didn’t think it would happen.” He spluttered, and Seller sighed.

“Well it hasn’t happened yet but the talk around the track is that someone’s going to pay a pretty penny for Ringo’s spot, so it makes sense in a way. After all, half the drivers on the grid have paid to be there.” He explained despondently. 

It wasn’t the first time in his life that George had felt useless, but it wasn’t a familiar feeling. He looked back and forth between manager and driver, latter absently itching the stitches under the bandage on his forehead, and the former still with folded arms and a bowed head.

“So what are you going to do now?” He questioned, and once again Sellers answered.

“Not much we can do until we’re back in fighting form. Flight will be booked as soon as we have a discharge date, and we’ll head home.” George hummed, drumming his fingers on Ringo’s mattress. 

“What are you gonna do?” Ringo then asked, and George’s fingers unconsciously started to drum faster. 

“I don’t know.” George did remember what he’d said, but when confronted by the reality of saying it to someone unlike John or Pattie, it was predictably difficult. Perhaps ‘The Quiet Beatle’ was a better moniker than he’d previously thought. He was chatty enough normally, but feelings and emotions were not his forte. They were for...others.

He shuffled uncomfortably, aware that both Ringo and Sellers were watching him, the latter with more paternal concern for his driver. 

“When do you fly back? You’ve undoubtedly got an album or something to record, hm?” Sellers questioned, and George smiled tightly, feeling the pressure of the manager on his shoulders.

He didn’t think Sellers was trying to get rid of him, but it was hard to think of any other reason in the moment. 

He just needed to be calm. Why was he getting flustered? It was just a question. Just a simple question from one man to another. George just needed to tell him he was concerned for Ringo, and they could go from there. 

“He, um- I was thinking...he…?” George trailed off with a sigh, cocking his head at Sellers like it was the manager that had just spat out a ball of stutters and nonsense. 

“Really?” Sellers snorted, and George knew he was as red as the sun.

“Did you want to fly back with us, lad? We could go as one big group.” George could kiss Ringo right now. 

“yES!” He blurted out, flushed, and then finished in a more appropriate tone. “I would. I mean- we would.” He insisted, and turned to Ringo, who was watching him amusedly.

“Well it might be a little shite, the plan that is. I’ll bet they decide the discharge date based on the position of the bloody stars.” He joked, a hint of nervousness in his voice, and George beamed. 

“That’s alright.” Across the room, Sellers cleared his throat.

“Is this what we’re doing?” He questioned with an eyebrow raised, and George froze, the blood freezing in his veins. But to his surprise, Ringo laughed.

“Don’t be a twat. It’ll be fine.” George’s eyes flicked back and forth between driver and manager like he was at Wimbledon. And to his surprise, Sellers chuckled.

“Fine. You pay for your own tickets, though.” George nodded rapidly.

“Oh of course. I would never expect you to.” Sellers’ expression changed yet again, and he narrowed his eyes.

“Are you calling me cheap?” He accused, but the effect was hampered somewhat by the pillow sailing through the air towards his head. 

“I said don’t be a twat!” Ringo laughed, and when Sellers reappeared from behind the pillow, he was laughing too. 

The anxiety started to trickle out of his body, and George sighed in relief as he realised Sellers was having him on. Even John wasn’t this bad sometimes. 

“Alright boy, I’ll go sort out the flights with Epstein.” Sellers sighed with a slight smile and left, the door clicking shut behind him. 

George allowed himself to fully relax, and he slumped down in a nearby chair, scooting it up beside Ringo’s bed. 

Sellers was something else, certainly. 

George watched as Ringo sat back as well, an arm over his midsection and a tightness in his forehead despite the smile on his face.

“You alright?” George questioned lightly, letting his head fall back onto the back of the low chair. Ringo looked at him and widened his smile, then noticing George looking at his arm.

“Yeah! It just hurts a bit.” He said dismissively. “I just want to get home at this point. I’ve only been in here a few days, but I feel like I'm going crazy. It’s the white walls, I'll tell you, it’s like being in the loony bin.” George nodded empathetically. Staying in hotels when they were touring was similarly draining, although he didn’t have a hole in his stomach at the time. 

“It's the smell too.” He commented, and Ringo pointed to him with a smile.

“Exactly that!” He insisted “I just want to be back home. Then I can get back on the track...even if I don't have a team.” George hummed, fiddling with his tie.

“Not giving it up then? I reckon a crash like yours would put me off racing for a fair bit, if not for good.” Ringo just looked at him with a strange, almost distant expression.

“Yeah, I suppose it would seem like that, eh lad? But you tell me, how many of them drivers out on that grid were there at the start of this here decade, eh? And how many are in the dirt?” George sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“There’s been a few, ain’t there.” He muttered, remembering the news headlines.

“Nine, actually. So all I'm thinking about is how lucky I am to not be joining them poor sods, but also how best I can show them how I ain’t a bloody shit driver I am for spinning out like that.” Ringo insisted 

“But you din’t spin out. You got whacked by that other git.” Ringo shrugged, shaking his head.

“Point still stands. I need to get back out there. Think of it like you and your music. You just can’t get it out of your blood.” Sure it was like music, George thought. If the guitar beat you over the head. 

 

//0‑0\\ 

 

The dying embers of the day glowed orange across the wall, burning the white walls in a softer colour that warmed the room. 

The doctor slowly unwound the bandage around Ringo’s head, taking care to not agitate the stitches underneath. 

John sat across the room, lounged sideways in a chair, strumming quietly on his reclaimed guitar. He watched the sun set through the open balcony doors, gaze seemingly fixed upon the disappearing star as his fingers moved in practiced motions on the fretboard, working through a piece Ringo couldn’t identify. 

The Monegasque doctor murmured quietly as he worked, slowly peeling off the last layer of the bandage and pressing gentle fingers to the black stitches, looking for any infection. Ringo watched John as a distraction from the dull pain, trying to recall his patchy knowledge of John’s previous songs to try and pair the guitar with something from his catalogue.  

George was absent, out hunting with Pattie for something better than the bland hospital food and another t-shirt Ringo could wear, the one Sellers had managed to sneak to him now starting to accumulate an unpleasant smell. 

John had stayed behind, promising to keep Ringo company as their managers disappeared with Mal for some godforsaken reason. 

The doctor finished with more mumbles in French, stepping back to observe his work. 

Ringo’s eyes flicked away from the fret board to watch the doctor hopefully, silently begging for a grunt of approval that would set him one step closer to a discharge date. 

“Hm… C'est bon ...it is good.” The doctor nodded, drawing John’s attention too. “ Ne le touche pas … uh- you do not touch.” He tapped his forehead in the same place Ringo’s stitches were, and the driver nodded, getting the gist of the doctor’s words. 

“Yes. No touch.” He repeated, putting his hands behind his back. The doctor nodded enthusiastically, giving a thumbs up before throwing away the unwrapped bandage and leaving, the door shutting with a soft click. 

“Nice man.” John commented suddenly, still playing the guitar. Ringo looked away from the door curiously.

“You think?” 

“You don’t?” John countered, and Ringo shrugged as much as he could without jolting his other wounds.

“Very polite.” He responded.

“He didn’t say much.”

“I like that in a person.” John raised his eyebrows. 

“Well I'll shut up then.” He smirked, stopping the music as he raised his hands in surrender. Ringo held up a hand. 

“You can talk if you keep playing.” He insisted, causing John’s smirk to widen.

“Of course, m’lord.” But he resumed playing all the same. 

They sat in silence for several more moments, until this time Ringo broke the silence.

“So what’re you playing?” John’s smirk returned, although he continued to look at the sunset.. 

“I thought you liked silence.” Ringo shrugged.

“Keep it to yourself then… George’ll tell me I bet.” He said dismissively, and John whipped around, eyes narrowed.

“He would never. Not if I wanted it a secret.” He said firmly, and again Ringo shrugged, fiddling with his bedsheet. 

“Well then I guess we’ll find out… Or you could just tell me now?” He fought not to smile as John huffed, his guitar playing becoming sloppier and sloppier. 

“George wouldn’t.” He mumbled. “It's a piece for the broadcast we’re doing soon. It's going to be a whole thing.” Ringo nodded along.

“I think I heard something like that. When is it?” 

“End of June. The broadcast is called Our World but the song is like a slogan about love.”
“Slogan? Oh clever. Slogans are clever.” He nodded, and John gave him his first genuine smile. 

“Yeah! They are! I’ve always said it but people don’t get it. It's like advertising an’ all that. It gets people to change.” Ringo hummed in agreement.

“If I was going to start a revolution I'd do it through slogans.” He stated, and John threw out his arm in agreement.
“Absolutely! Y’know, you’re alright, Rings. George kept raving about you but I get it now.” John declared, and although Ringo knew he shouldn’t place his worth in the hands of others, it didn’t hurt to allow himself this one glow of pride. 

He smiled self consciously and scrubbed a hand across his face, breaking the comfortable moment when he scratched his stitches.

“Oh fuck!” John barked a laugh.

“You stupid git!” 

 

//0‑0\\ 

 

Ringo knew he wasn’t going to look great, but when he was finally able to stagger to his feet and lurch to the bathroom by himself, it still was a shock to see the skeleton looking back at him. 

He dried his sweaty hands on his pajama trousers, finally getting the ok to wear all his own clothes that morning as the bandages around his midsection had been taken off as well.

He combed the sticky hair from his forehead, the other hand supporting himself by clenching the sink in front of him. He winced as the hair slid past his forehead stitches, switching to picking up each individual hair around that area. 

He really did look like hell. 

Unshaven beard, greasy hair, and sweaty face. What a picture for the morning.

It was a miracle George had even stuck around this long, he must be stinking up the whole place. 

He swore the first thing he was going to do once he got out of this place was get a haircut. 

But first, he needed to tackle the shower himself. He could already feel the soap burning his wounds, nevermind having to actually look at his stomach. 

He had pointedly looked away as his doctor unwounded the bandages, holding eye contact with George for probably an awkward amount of time. 

The rest of George’s friends were arriving later that day, and Ringo wasn’t about to subject them to his unwashed body for another day.

It was an equal balance in Ringo’s eyes. On one hand, he could stink to high heaven until he could work up the courage to shower himself and subject George to the results of his childishness, or he could do it now and bear the pain. 

 

All the courage in the world couldn’t silence his yelp as the water turned on with a powerful splash, lightly spraying Ringo’s bare chest as he stood outside the blast, a hand wrapped protectively around his midsection.

The nurse had wrapped his broken foot in plastic to cover the cast, and it rustled lightly from the air being disturbed by the shower blast.

“You alright, Ritch?” A soft knock came to the door, and Ringo squeaked again, a less soft swear following right after. 

“Yeah yeah! All good!” He called back to George, and he sighed as he heard footsteps receding from the door. 

Don’t be a bitch. Get in the shower. 

God he needed a drink.

Get in the shower.

The water was splashing his toes.

What would George think?

The arm around his midsection wasn’t enough.

Get in the fucking shower. 

Why did he have to start racing?

George is waiting.

One day you’re about to take pole position the next you’re scared of the shower. 

He’s not scared of the shower.

He leaves the hot blast and dons his boxers again, just in case he passes out to save the embarrassment.

The water stings his foot as he sticks it into the stream.

He turns down the heat. 

He just needs to get the rest of his body to follow. 

One.

Two.

Two and a half.

Three. 

…

Four.

He had turned the heat down too far.

The icy water was a blessing, however, as the shock distracted him from the water rushing past his wounds. 

His breath rushed out of him in a gasp, and he floundered around weakly, throwing out his hand to clutch at the mobility bar bolted to the wall like he was some kind of old wuss. 

Another hand braced himself against the wet wall as his plastic wrapped foot slipped on the wet tiles, and he swore loudly as the angle pulled at his stitches angrily. 

He threw his head back as the water poured down on his forehead, but that only left his stomach open to the blast. 

“Fuck fuck fuck. You stupid twat.” The pain was only matched by the force of Ringo’s teeth clamping down on his lip, and he forced his head back under the spray so the back of his head caught the brunt of the blast. 

He coughed and sputtered as water spilled into his mouth, and he retched as his mind flashed back to the harbour. He spat out more water, forcing himself to breathe.

He realised with another string of curses that he was effectively stuck, with one unsteady leg underneath him and no way to reach across the shower to turn off the water.

Ringo looked around desperately, water running into his eyes and strength rapidly fading. 

“Ritch, seriously, are you alright?!” George was at the door again. 

Ringo wanted to cry.

He’d rather die than have George see him in this state.

“Could- could you get the nurse?!” He called, and he knew the distress in his voice was clear. There was faint shuffling outside the door before George’s voice replied, this time much more alarmed.

“Ringo I don’t know how! She’s gone!” Ringo swore a string of curses so filthy it would make a prostitute blush. 

“Fuck- uh...George, I-” He looked around one last time, before finishing in a tiny voice George could barely hear. “Could you help me, please?” He was just thankful that he had the foresight to keep his boxers on. 

The door opened in an instant, and Ringo watched through the stream of water as George strode in with a look of determined concern on his face, quickly taking in the scene much to Ringo’s humiliation.

“Oh Jesus, Ritch.” He rushed over to the shower and turned off the water in an instant, stepping into the cubicle before the water had even stopped running.

“Here, grab my hand.” Ringo swiped wildly for George’s support, unconsciously pushing off the wall and just draping himself over the musician’s body. 

George wrapped his hands carefully around Ringo’s body, starting to pull him slowly out of the cubicle and onto a metal chair set next to the sink. 

He reached over and swiped a towel off the rack, wrapping it around Ringo’s shoulders as the man just sat with his head hung. 

“I’m sorry about all this.” He whispered, and George froze, eyes widening. “What twat would do this for a job?” He sighed and cradled his head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. 

He felt like he had just been dunked in the harbour again, and he fought down the lump in his throat. 

He felt George hover around him, nervously fiddling with another towel.

“Do you want another-” 

“Could you just give me a few minutes, mate? Please?” Against his will, the last word came out like a whimper but thankfully George nodded silently and left, handing the fluffy towel to Ringo and closing the door behind him. 

Ringo just buried his face into the soft material in his hands, heaving in shaky breaths and trying to stabilise his trembling shoulders. 

 

Outside, George sat silently on the hospital bed, holding his own hands and staring at the door handle to the bathroom. 

Nothing could be heard from inside the room, and so George was left to listen to the soft sounds of the hospital around him as the sight of Ringo slumped in his chair burned itself into his eyes. The pitiful sight was something alien to George, especially from an outsider like Ringo. 

The band had their bad days, but George had always been able to pick himself up later and put on a smile, and if he couldn’t, there was no way in hell he’d let anyone know. 

But it had been a week, and George was starting to realise Ringo couldn’t pick himself back up. 

George knew he wanted to help, but he didn’t know if he could. 

He didn’t know if Ringo would even let him if he tried. 

But that was always the first step. Try. 

Let the train leave the station.

He rose to his feet, scooping up the clean pile of clothes on the bed beside him and crossing over to the bathroom with a determined stride.

He paused momentarily, before slapping on a brave face and knocking on the door.

No reply. 

No problem. Let the train leave the station.

“Ritch, I've got your clothes, mate.” Again, no reply. “You can’t just sit around like a wet dog, lad.” A wet chuckle could be heard, along with some shuffling.

“Really?” George went to go nod, but then stopped himself with a dry look at the floor.

“Oh yeah. That hot nurse, the one with the nice arse, she’s a cat person anyway.” This time, a full blown bark of laughter was audible.

“You’re so full of shit, Georgie. She’s clearly a dog girl. It’s all in the hands, y’see.” Ringo’s voice was muffled somewhat, and the sad tone was still painfully present, but George smiled anyway.

“You wanna find out? I can go and find her if you want?” George offered lightly. 

“Don’t be a twat.” Ringo sniffed, but George could hear the smile in his voice. He let the silence hang for a few moments, and then he was rewarded with the door cracking open and Ringo appearing behind it. 

“Hand them over, then, lad.” 

George waited outside as Ringo got dressed, with only a few precarious moments in between.

“Oh fucking christ!” George rushed to the door. 

“What’s the problem? Are you alright?” He called, hand on the door handle, and there was loud scuffling inside the bathroom.

“No! Stay outside- fucking shit- don’t come in, I’ve just dropped my pants in a puddle like a twat. Don’t come in, me arse is out.” George blushed and retreated, back to turning over thoughts.

When Ringo emerged, dressed in loose shorts and a white button up, George had a plan. 

He held up the crutches a physical therapist had left in the corner and grinned as Ringo stared at him in bewilderment, pausing as he limped out of the bathroom. 

“You ain’t serious, are you?” Was all he said, and George just grinned.

“Let’s go for a walk!”

Notes:

this is the only time i'll describe ringo's eyes i promise

Chapter 5: Thursday's Child

Summary:

"Monday's child is fair of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace.
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go.
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child works hard for a living.
And the child born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, good and gay."

- A. E. Bray's 'Traditions of Devonshire'

3,154 words

It took a few minutes for Ringo to get the hang of the crutches, and George had to swoop in at moments to catch the shorter man before he stacked it on the linoleum floor. 

It was a welcome relief when they reached the lift, and Ringo could take a breather and rest his head against the rattling wall of the lift as it descended. 

George watched him exhale slowly and stuck his hands in his pockets awkwardly.

He was uncomfortably aware of the growing feelings of uselessness slowly spreading in the back of his mind like a parasite, slow tendrils of anxiety digging into his brain. 

Ringo was so clearly struggling but all George could do was watch.

And keep the train moving.

 

The lift doors rattled open and George waited for Ringo to maneuver himself out of the metal box before following him out into the back hallways of the hospital. 

“George, you never actually said where we were going, mate.” Ringo complained as George led him down the unremarkable halls, and George threw a smile over his shoulder. 

“We’re almost there!” He promised, and Ringo sighed. 

“That wasn’t what I asked.” But he kept on walking, the squeak of the crutches now filling the air. 

He sighed with relief as George finally stopped beside a door marked with a plaque written in French, and Ringo swayed slightly as he threw it open, letting a shard of natural light slice through the fluorescent light beaming down from the ceiling. 

Ringo stepped through the doorway and was greeted by the sight of a small stone walled garden, with a large tree in the centre and several pitiful attempts at a flower garden in several corners. 

Several smaller trees spread their branches across the green area, the grass reaching their ankles as George led him into the little glade. 

Ringo abandoned the hospital slides that he had worn on his uninjured foot and buried his uncovered foot in the grass, laughing as the soft vegetation tickled the sole. 

George guided him to a small wooden bench underneath the biggest tree, where Ringo could finally sit and cast aside the crutches. 

The air was crisp and clean, with a rare clear sky and only the quiet sounds of the city on the other side of the walls to accompany them. 

“Jesus, George...how’d you find this place?” Ringo rested his head against the bark of the tree as George sat down beside, the wood of the bench dipping slightly.

“I started to explore when you were out. I like nature, y’know… apparently they’re going to put a garden in soon.” Ringo hummed, closing his eyes contentedly.

“Well it’s a great find, Georgie. You can just leave me here, screw everything else.” Ringo didn’t know how much he treasured fresh, clean air until he was cooped up inside for a week, and now he couldn’t get enough. 

“Do you mind if I stay too? The band’ll do fine without me.” George joked, and Ringo allowed his head to tilt towards the other man, opening one eye. 

“Absolutely not. Your music's too good for that. I need your annual albums.” He said with mock sternness, and George snorted and gently pushed him away. 

“Don’t be a suck up.” He laughed, and Ringo scoffed.

“Oh, you’re right, my bad. I prefer the Stones, your music's shite.” He deadpanned, and George gave him a melodramatic cry of outrage. 

“You can’t drive for shit, anyway!” He said dismissively, and Ringo smacked him up his head.

“Ya wha’? You cheeky git.” George whacked him back, catching his uninjured knee before Ringo smacked his ribs. 

George swore his net hit was for Ringo’s shoulder.

“Oh you cunt!” Ringo whined as a last minute dodge landed George’s hand right on his stitches. He fell to the side, clutching his stomach, and George swore up a storm, jumping up and running his hands through his hair. 

“Oh shit, Ritch, I'm so sorry!” Ringo took a moment to reply, looking down his collar to spot any torn sutures before he started to chuckle weakly.

“Ah, I deserved it.” He sighed with a grin as George started to relax, but the soft grin turned into a smirk as his broken foot darted out, the rock hard cast catching George right in the crotch. 

They both yelled out in sync, falling into the ground and clutching their injuries.

“Oh that was a bad idea.” Ringo moaned, clutching his poor ankle as the cast failed to protect him. 

“You’re a….” George whined, his face smushed into the grass. 

“You started it, bastard.” Ringo said with a laugh, and he rolled onto his back with a groan, splaying out his arms like a star fish and gazing at the tree canopy above as the light filtered through the leaves.

George didn’t copy, instead choosing to roll over on his side and watch Ringo instead as he let the dappled sun warm his face. 

“Thanks for bringing me here, Georgie…it means a lot.” Ringo said after a minute, and he looked to the side at George as he hummed.

“Any time, Ritch, any time.” 

George brought him out to their garden a few more times after that, and each time he could see Ringo gaining confidence with his crutches and his stitches becoming less sensitive. 

The discharge date was set for the Sunday, and Sellers and Peter had the flights booked within the hour for the Sunday night. 

There was one stop in between the hospital and the airport, though. 

//0‑0\\ 

 

“Cor blimey, Rings, you dressing for a funeral?” John exclaimed as he, George, and Brian strolled into Ringo’s hospital room for the last time, the man in question adjusting the tie of his black suit in the reflection of the balcony windows. 

His whole outfit was black, even the dress shirt being a dark grey.

“Yeah, my own.” Ringo replied miserably, and his hands dropped to his sides with a sigh as the tie could not be adjusted any further. 

“You’ll be fine, Ringo. Are you ready to go?” Brian said calmly, holding his briefcase in one arm and his coat draped over the other. He had just returned from seeing Mal and Pattie off to the airport in their own car, not wanting to bear the crowds at the airport with two Beatles and a Formula One driver.

Ringo nodded, looking past his reflection in the window and out into the stormy sky of Monaco. 

The sky crackled with the coming storm, and as the quartet left the hospital slowly, rumbles of thunder could be heard over the squeak of Ringo’s crutches. 

Sellers was waiting by their cars as they used the rickety old lift to descend to the underground garage, all four of them in less than two square meters  

Ringo limped after them like a condemned man, and George watched him tightly climb into his and Sellers' car as his crutches were placed in the boot. 

“Oi, come on, loopy.” John called from inside the car, throwing an empty cigarette carton at him as Brian climbed into the front.

George tore his gaze away from the other car as a ringed hand closed the door, and he jumped in next to John as it pulled away. 

“What were you looking at, George?” Brian asked from the front as their own car started to follow Ringo’s out of the garage. The rain had started to fall as they emerged, and George watched it slide down the window.

“Just Ritch. He looked a right misery.” He looked to the front of the car and saw Brian shuffling through a stack of papers, and he could see their passports mixed in with the pile. 

“I don’t blame him. I’d look a state if I were him.” John commented, fiddling with his gaudy tie. “If it were me, I’d just clap all of them ‘round the head and be done with them.” He continued, and Brian gave a chuckle from the front seat.

“I don’t think they’d let you back into the driver’s seat if you did that, John.” John shrugged.

“I wouldn’t wanna be there. They can go fuck themselves. Right twats, they are.” He proclaimed, and George didn’t disagree, in fact expressing his sentiment with an approving grunt as the rain drummed on the roof.

John looked over to him.

“What did Rings say to you, Geo? Are we about to see the world's highest profile boxing match?” George huffed a laugh and shook his head, eyes tracing raindrops. 

“No. I guess he’s  just accepted it at this point.” John frowned and sat back in the car, crossing his arms.

“Too soft for this world, that boy is. We need to toughen him up, get some fire in him.” John insisted.

“I think he saves that for the race track, John.” Brian interjected, nose still buried in papers. John waved a hand dismissively.

“Then we need to add more fire.” George gave him a dry look.

“Your idea of fire is to box some old gits in a boardroom?” He asked incredulously, and John hummed thoughtfully, amazing George as he believed he was about to witness the first official thought of John Lennon.

“Yeah, actually.” Ope. I guess we’ll have to wait a bit longer for that, then. 

 

The drive to the Monaco Formula One top office was one packed with traffic, and George was glad for the heavily tinted windows of the car as other cars pulled alongside as they sat in a traffic jam. 

The long journey gave his brain a chance to do its new favourite activity it had discovered in the last few months: Replay every moment of Ringo’s crash in George’s mind, along with every moment of Ringo’s pain afterwards. 

George didn’t know why his brain took such delight in displaying his new friend’s pain, or why it affected George more than he thought it normally would. 

Sure, the crash was horrific and George would be worried for any friend caught in such a situation, but the deep feeling of dread and woe that roiled in his stomach each time that number 44 car spun into the water was inexplicable, like it was happening again in front of his very eyes. 

And the scenes of Ringo almost drowning in the shower and hanging onto life with a ventilator were almost worse than the blood bubbling out of Ringo’s abdomen after he was pulled from the harbour.

It was like his brain was taunting him with the images of his idol in distress, pointing at him and cackling at how far he’d fallen, the opportunities that had been lost.

If only the rain hadn’t fallen that day, then maybe George would be touring with Ringo and the rest of the grid to the Netherlands, then Belgium, then France, rather than waiting for Ringo to be kicked off his team.  

They sat in a private lounge within the airport, hidden from the view of the public and even other high paying passengers. 

John watched from a velvet sofa beside the bar as Ringo and Sellers murmured together, hunched in a corner. Well, it was mostly Sellers doing the murmuring and Ringo doing the hunching. 

He had been kicked from BRM as predicted, with little grace and a lot of flowery words about safety and concern. 

They had instantly been able to tell the verdict from how Ringo and Sellers had emerged from the Formula One building, heads down and grave expressions on their faces.

John had watched George as the pair strode swiftly towards their car as they stood beside their own car, smoking absently and waiting. 

He could see the little bit of hope on George’s face drain as he saw Ringo’s face, and he stamped out his half finished cigarette and pulled John into their own car as Ringo and Sellers drove off, not bothering to wait. 

John understood, of course, if he was kicked out of the Beatles he wouldn’t give a shit about people like Paul or Yoko either. 

That made John pause. Who was Yoko in this situation? 

He gave George a side-eye as he allowed himself to be pulled into the car, and his gaze flicked between George and the car ahead of them suspiciously.

Was George Yoko? 

Platonically, most definitely. He saw the electric connection between himself and Yoko within George and Ringo, and he just wondered to what extent the connection was. 

They were all in Monaco because of George’s connection with Ringo, who had stayed glued to his bedside, and although George thought he was being discreet he had seen Ringo and he in the shitty hospital garden. 

He tuned Brian out as the manager questioned George on the outcome of the meeting, his face still buried in paper as he used the dashboard as a desk. 

Would George feel the same way he did about Yoko? 

John didn’t know what to think about it. Everything was screeching that George wasn’t like that, because that was bad...but John knew George wasn’t bad. George was George first and foremost. 

John thought back to the moments he and Ringo had shared alone. Ringo wasn’t bad either. 

He almost laughed when he remembered the song he had played to the man. It would be a bit hypocritical to say ‘All You Need Is Love’ but then go ‘No, not that love, thanks.’ 

He was no Jesus, either. Poor Cynthia stood as a testament to that.

 

John stared at George as they sat in the lounge of the airport, thoughts still turning.

He still hadn’t come to a clear conclusion, but one of the facts he had managed to establish was that George was just, if not more, as clueless and naive as John. 

John wasn’t afraid to say that George could be a dunce sometimes, especially when it came to relationships. His seventeen years of virginity proved that. 

George probably didn’t know what he was thinking, and Ringo certainly didn’t have the time nor energy to think about anything like that. 

John resolved to stay out of it, for now. Just to preserve his own sanity from starting a loop of conflicting morality. 

George drew shapes on the condensation of his pint glass, trying to casually gaze over the rim of the lager glass at anything other than Ringo and Sellers. 

His hand luggage sat between his feet in front of the barstool, and he gently rocked the bag from side to side. 

The far wall of the lounge was covered in floor to ceiling windows, and George’s current fixation was watching the last dregs of daylight disappear as they made a silhouette of the planes taking off and landing between them.

His gaze flicked away from the windows as there was movement in the corner.

Sellers stood up with a groan, ruffling Ringo’s hair and walking over to George and the bar. 

He sat down on the stool beside George with a heavy sigh. 

“Double scotch, if you could.” The young bartender who had been quietly polishing crystal glasses nodded quickly and filled one of the freshly cleaned highball glasses with amber whiskey. 

“That bad, hm?” George remarked, and Sellers huffed out a derisive laugh.

“Worse. This is me being good. Ritch is gone, and so far no other teams are expressing the slightest bit of interest in him. It’s early days, but for a driver of Ritch’s caliber, something is happening that we don’t know yet. We’ll know after we land.” Sellers explained, punctuating his statements with sips from his whiskey. 

“What’s Ringo saying?” George asked, draining the last of his lager. 

“Not much. He just needs time to figure it all out. We’ll head down south for a while, try and figure things out.” George nodded understandingly, absently wondering if Ringo would let him visit.

“Do you think you’ve been blacklisted? From F1?” George questioned, and Sellers shrugged.

“Impossible to tell. I didn’t get any indication before the race of any animosity, but it depends on who the blame falls on for the crash. It did cost the win for someone.” George nodded. There had been no film cameras pointed at that section of the track, only photos George had heard were still being developed and analysed. 

It was bad news if he was blacklisted. No team would take him on for the rest of his career, and he’d be cast out in shit creek without a paddle. 

//0‑0\\ 

 

Their plane landed soon after, and the group had to make their way to the runway quickly and quietly, lest any photographers or press sniff them out. 

The plane was small, but Ringo managed to position himself in a corner away from the rest of the group in the first class section as he boarded first. 

Brian watched as George tried to follow, but a flock of fans drew his attention and he and John were caught up signing a hundred autographs and shaking hands. 

The manager tried to control the amount of fans that could reach the boys at one time, and he looked gratefully at Sellers as the other manager started to help, but then his grateful look turned into one of horror as Sellers started to beat back particularly strong fans with a wooden clipboard. 

 

The fans soon had their fill, or Brian told them they did, and he dragged the boys to the check-in desk. The bewildered flight attendants ushered them through, and soon they were in the sky, and Brian was back to watching George stare mournfully at Ringo in the corner. 

It was quite sad, in a way, but Brian knew that all Ringo needed was time, and although George liked to say otherwise, Brian also knew George wasn’t a patient man. He needed things to be right. Now. 

 

The flight was short, but it still gave enough time for word of their takeoff to reach Heathrow. There was double the usual crowd waiting for them on the dark runway, and as Brian’s group disembarked last, they pounced on both parties.

“ MR STARR WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT YOUR REMOVAL FROM YOUR RACING TEAM?”
“MR HARRISON WHY DID YOU STAY SO LONG IN MONACO?”

“MR LENNON IS IT TRUE THAT YOUR LATEST ALBUM IS TRYING TO INDOCTRINATE CHILDREN?”

The flashes of cameras briefly illuminated the night’s sky, and they all moved as one big crowd towards the airport building as the three struggled to answer questions. 

Sellers acted as a kind of body guard for his protege, using his clipboard method to clear a path for Ritch to use his crutches through. 

“Uhm, their decision is obviously very disappointing, but this certainly isn’t the end of my career.” Ringo answered with difficulty, more flashes popping in his face. 

“Well I just wanted to spend some time with a friend, and since our last album did so well, it was a small sort of break for us.” George answered his own questions quietly and measuredly, eyes flicking around and not settling on anything. 

“Well y’know I’ve got a great answer for that-” Brain swore.

“No, he DOESN’T!”

Notes:

My tumblr is @snookeroo if you want to come bully me in my asks or anything like that

Chapter 6: Mortal Coil

Summary:

When we have unwound and worked off this coil of mortality.

 

3,789 words

George could see Ringo turning him out before the man knew himself. 

It was in the way Ringo walked on the outside of Sellers as George walked on the inside. 

In the way he bought his own drink even as George offered to pay. 

In the way Ringo gave ‘we’ll see what happens’ when George offered for them to meet up some time, and in the way he didn’t meet George’s eye as they said goodbye as they retreated to their own cars. 

He knew Brian and John could see it too, as they watched him stand in the drizzling rain and gaze at Ringo’s car speeding off. 

//0‑0\\ 

 

George waded slowly through the next few weeks, strolling around in a daze.

He took holidays with Pattie, flying to America and meeting up with friends. 

Inspiration for songs came and went, but he couldn’t stop replaying every action he had taken with Ringo, searching for the point in which Ringo’s attitude had flipped, the point at which he had turned into the man that had effectively ghosted George and vanished from the public eye. 

Pattie grew concerned at moments, when they sat on LA beaches and all George could do was stare into the horizon as he slowly burned under the sun. 

Anger was a common emotion. Anger at himself for whatever he did to drive Ringo away, but then anger at Ringo for his lack of transparency. Anger at his dismissal even though George had extended his stay in Monaco just for him, and tossed and turned at night just for him. Anger at the other racer that had caused all this. Anger at the rest of the grid as they continued the season on the TV. 

George knew he was angering others with his behaviour, too. John snapped at him during their few and far between sessions in the studio, cursing his lifeless energy. 

Paul was just confused, he knew. He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t seen the way Ringo looked at him when he first woke up or what George saw when Ringo gazed up at the tree canopy.

None of them understood what had changed. 

It sounded self pitying when stated out loud, but George didn’t let anyone listen. 

//0‑0\\ 

 

“And you can see the garden is most luxurious. Your land extends far along that hill, up to that wooden fence. Did you know they say that fence was built when King Henry the Eighth was on the throne?” The real estate agent beamed. 

“Mustn’t be very strong anymore, then.” Ringo sniffed and turned away, but the real estate agent’s smile didn’t drop.

“Then you can drag it down! The fence is on your land, that is if you purchase the house of course.” He chuckled, and Ringo gave him a forced smile. 

“Right-o.” The agent seemed to have the marvellous ability to have a conversation with someone without them actually answering, which Ringo found out very quickly as they toured the house together. It was huge, he did acknowledge. And probably old. And most definitely quiet.

 

That’s all Ringo wanted, anyway. Up north everyone knew him and was up his chuff looking for gossip or something to blackmail him with or send to the press. Down south in Weybridge, where the house stood, barely anyone recognised him, not even his estate agent. 

Sellers had suggested it first, even organising the tours for Ringo, but he insisted the driver go on his own for the actual viewing.

‘You’ll be the one living there, not me’ was his justification. Ringo was sure he just wanted a break from his moping and moaning.

 

Ringo shuffled behind the eager agent, his foot still clad in a supportive brace. The rest of his body was still slowly healing, but his foot still needed time. 

He liked the house, at least from the brief look he had received so far. It was in a good location, too. Right near a local rally track. 

Ringo loved rally. He had grown up reading about race highlights in local newspapers, and watching the tiny TVs in the betting shops with little black and white rally cars flying around the track. 

He zoned back into the agent’s yammering just as he gestured at the house on the top of the hill, with Ringo’s potential  house at the bottom. 

“-and if you wanted a brush with fame, one of the Beatles lives on the other side of the fence!” Scratch that. Least desirable house on the market. 

“What? Which one?” The agent mistook his horror for excitement, and nodded eagerly. 

“John Lennon!” He explained, and Ringo scowled, staring out the second floor window and across to the house almost identical to the one he was standing in. What a pit of luck. It was a shame, Ringo had quite liked the house. 

He gave a non-commital grunt which the agent took as a sign to move on, and he led Ringo back down the stairs and out the front door. 

Ringo could even see Lennon’s front door from the gravel driveway.

“Now of course tudor houses weren’t built with the modern garage, so a detached building serves as a spacious garage for all of your vehicles.” The agent led Ringo around the large trees that lined the side of the house, following the gravel road to a large standalone garage. 

Ringo whistled in appreciation at the size. He was already imagining his cars parked perfectly in the garage like matches in a box before his thoughts soured at the prospect of having to drive past Lennon’s house each day. 

What a prick for living there. 

Ringo stepped inside the garage and swiveled his head around to take in every inch. It was a great garage, he must admit. 

Right near a racetrack, too.

Oh to hell with Lennon.

 

Ringo didn’t tell Sellers about his future neighbour when he got back home, simply calling him and telling him he wanted the house. 

“When do you want to move? And how do you want to do it?” Ringo glanced around at his Manchester home, the smallish rooms and uneven floors looking back at him.

He could’ve bought a better house years ago, but he owned villas across the world, and he now only lived in England on the offseason, which was just over half of the year. 

He supposed he had kept the house to remind him where he came from, but also because he had picked it out with his mother. She had loved the hardwood floors. 

But now he had other things to keep him humble. Memories and scars still healing. 

“I’ll give it to my parents in a fortnight. I’ll pack the important stuff and if you could get some boys to pick up the rest that’d be gear.” He said at last. 

Sellers agreed and Ringo set the phone back on the cradle, leaving a weak silence behind. 

The cars whizzing past outside and the very faint sounds of life from the neighbouring houses never left, and the final sound of a backfiring car was the last nail in the coffin.

To hell with Lennon. That house was his. It wasn’t like George lived there.

 

 

“Ready to say goodbye to this old place yet?” Sellers greeted with a fatherly smile, and Ringo waved him inside with a shrug and a small quirk of his lips. 

“Ready to get some bloody peace.” He murmured, and Sellers clapped him on the arm as he strolled further inside. When Ringo slowly followed him into the kitchen, ankle brace dragging across the floor quietly, Seller sat down in his usual spot at the table with a relaxed sigh. 

“Cuppa tea?” He offered, and Sellers nodded gratefully. 

When Ringo set the two steaming mugs on the table, Sellers snagged his own in one hand and placed his briefcase on the table beside it.

He snapped open the latches and Ringo watched as he brought out several Manila folders.

“Now the board is still holding onto their guns and harping on about safety, as if they didn’t make you all drive in a monsoon, and have said your medication will not allow you to drive, due to the side effects of some of the drugs.” Ringo sighed, disappointment and anger sinking into his chest.

“Did they say which ones?” He questioned, and Sellers nodded, looking down at his papers for the specific sheet.

“Yes, the iproniazid in particular.” He said firmly, and Ringo swore, taking a long sip of his tea. 

“Load of wankers, the lot of ‘em.” He murmured, and Sellers chuckled sourly.

“Don’t we know it. But I did also manage to wrestle some information from an aide. Good news is that it’s not the board keeping you out, and not everyone hates you.”

Ringo raised an eyebrow. Sellers continued, getting his message. “Bad news is that someone is shelling out to make it look like everyone thinks you’re Hitler’s reincarnation.” Sellers saw his furrowed brow and expanded upon his statement. “Teams are being paid to hate you. Big teams, as well, with enough money to make smaller teams stay away. Someone is tossing enough money around, but who it is has spent more keeping that hidden.”

“So I have to get off my drugs and play Miss Marple for them to think about letting me in?” 

Sellers shrugged apologetically. “So there’s something rotten in the state of Denmark.” Ringo confirmed.

“Well you can probably rule out drivers. Half of them don’t have enough cash to convince a bike shop to not race.” Sellers theorised, and Ringo’s brief smile at the joke faded in seconds.

“Are you sure they don’t just hate me? I mean, the inquest barely cleared anything up.” He asked with uncharacteristic timidness. Sellers frowned and sat back, fiddling with his fountain pen. He was silent for a few moments, his eyes fixed on the pen. 

“It could be that. It’s easy to hate out of a human reaction. We are prospecting with a saucepan after all. But I don’t think that’s the case.” He said slowly, and Ringo didn’t say anything, waiting for Sellers to continue. “It’s not based on anything anyone’s said, because they’ve been very tight lipped around myself. It’s a feeling, but if you have to stop some of your medication maybe it’s best to wait until the anger, if that is the case, dies down.” 

So that’s what Ringo did. He began the wait.

 

//0‑0\\ 

 

His mother was overjoyed to have the house, practically starting to move in as Ringo moved out. 

He packed his essentials, a few clothes and some personal effects, before vacating the house to let the movers pack the rest. 

They’d deliver his belongings by sundown, so Ringo had a day to kill.

He drove to his chemist and doctors, letting them know the move and taking his last prescription. 

The little bottles rattled in his passenger seat as he drove away, and he ignored the little voice in his head reminding him of the task of quitting the drugs. 

He merged onto the motorway, winding aimlessly along the A57.

His Maserati Mistral was a model from the previous year, and it sounded like home as he accelerated past an old banger of a car as it puttered along. 

They were coming into the few weeks of summer that England received, and so Ringo allowed himself to roll down the window and let the wind stream through the car, blowing his hair away from his face as he cruised down the motorway.

It was a nice moment, until it wasn’t. 

The quiet chattering of the radio ended, and a hand strummed a guitar.

“ You’ll never know how much I really- “ George sang on the old recording.

“Fucks sake!” Ringo slapped the radio, trying to silence the singing.

“ Listen, do you want to know a secret?” He only succeeded in making the recording louder, along with the obnoxious ‘ doo-wa-do’ of the rest of the band. 

“Shut up you stupid-“ 

“ Nobody knows, just we two-“ With a final slap, the radio fell silent, Ringo’s mood well and truly ruined. 

He sat in silence for a few more moments, combing his hands through his lengthening hair. 

That was another thing. Haircut.

Although he best not go into the barber with a mood on otherwise he’d go bald. 

 

Going to the barber was the right decision. It cemented his resolve to get out of the celebrity rat race of the north. 

All throughout his haircut he was accosted by fan after journalist after fan, questioning him on his injuries and praying for his good health. It would have normally been sweet, but with a growing headache Ringo was one question away from biting someone’s head off. 

“Oh my gosh!” Ringo closed his eyes and sighed. The haircut was almost over. “You met George Harrison!” Oh mercy me. 

“Excuse me?” He opened his eyes to look at the older teenage boy staring at him in fascination, brain not quite believing what his ears had told him. 

“ You met George Harrison! ” The boy insisted, and it took every inch of self control with Ringo not to lurch back as the boy stepped forwards, for the barber’s razor was just about to cut his sideburns, the razor at his neck.

“Look mate, it was nice meeting you, but I’m busy at the moment, yeah? So if you could just-”
“Just tell me what it’s like to meet him, I've got to know.” He took another step forwards, grasping the arm of the barber’s chair, and that was it.
“Sorry lad, I've got to go.” He snatched the barber’s wrist and brought the razor away, scrambling up and pressing a few pound notes into the barber’s other hand. 

“But we are not finished?!” The barber called after him, but Ringo had already darted out the door, wiping his face with a provided towel and letting the bell ring shut behind him. 

His fan, or rather George’s fan, tried to follow, but Ringo slipped into the Maserati and peeled away, not caring about the disapproving looks he attracted from old dears on the street as his engine roared. 

He looked in his rearview mirror for any chasing teenagers, and in the process caught sight of his unfinished haircut and swore.

He had asked for something to keep the hair out of his eyes, and the barber had swept it all back in a messy elvis style, but now with the sideburns he looked like a shitty teddy boy. 

“Bloody idiot.” He didn’t know whether he was cursing the barber, the kid, or himself at this point. 

 

 

He pulled into his new house at sunset, the movers just finishing up. 

He opened up the garage with some difficulty, his braced foot struggling for traction on the gravel, and parked the Maserati next to his other car that he had brought down the previous night, a Ferrari 275 GTS. 

He saw the movers watch him cruise in with envy, so he made a show of bolting the garage shut. 

They cleared off quickly after that, saying goodbye and their thanks after payment and tips were exchanged. 

The sounds of the engines grew fainter and fainter as Ringo watched them leave, and he turned around to stare at his new house, the setting sun illuminating it in a golden glow. 

 

He toasted the new beginnings with a drink from an unpacked crate, using a martini glass to hold his whiskey as it sat on top of the pile. 

He strolled around the house, planning out where he would put his belongings and what more he would buy to fill the much bigger residency. Boxes were still scattered everywhere, only the heaviest stuff moved upstairs by the movers that day. 

He balanced his martini glass in one hand and dug out his record player from another box with the other, plugging it into the kitchen and checking for any damage. 

His records were god knows where, so he drained his glass and started to search every crate within sight.

There were some unexpected finds that he didn’t realise he still had, such as his old racing trophies from his youth, engraved with his name.

The trophies got more and more ornate when he dug them out, signalling bigger wins with more prizes. He grinned with the reveal of each one, dragging them all to a room he designated as a study and placing them all upon a shelf. 

They shined in the weak sunset light streaming through the windows, and the moment was made even better by the sight of his records poking out from under the last trophy in the box. 

He snatched them out with a beam and shuffled back to his record player, picking up his braced foot as much as possible to preserve the hardwood floors, and immediately set his Lesley Gore album spinning. 

He poured himself another drink as the songs changed, pointedly ignoring the cautions on his medication labels, and by the time the record fell silent, Ringo was four more drinks deep and snoring on the sofa, officially marking his first night in his new house.

 

//0‑0\\ 

 

Paul waited outside the door at the top of the hill, the ringing of the bell still echoing inside the house. Martha stood between his legs, the old English sheepdog panting gently in the warm sun.

He glanced around aimlessly as he waited for John to get off his arse wherever he was in the small mansion he owned, and his eyes fell on the house at the bottom of the hill, where a red Ferrari sat beside the front door. 

Hm. John didn’t say anything about a new neighbour. 

Speak of the devil.

“Ah, there you are!” The door swung open vigorously, and Paul turned to greet a very disheveled John.

“Hello...John?” Paul took in his messy hair, lack of shirt, unshaven beard, and bowl of cereal in his hands. John grinned and ushered him in, gesturing with a spoon. Martha rushed in before Paul could say anything, diving between John’s legs and sending him stumbling.

“Sorry about the state of things. I was up late last night sorting details for the store with George.” Paul hummed noncommittally as he followed John into his house, which was in a slightly less disheveled state. John knew what he thought about that hairbrained idea to open a retail store. As far as he was concerned, it was like chucking money down the drain, money which he wasn’t sure they had. 

“Well I can see that by the fact that you’re eating breakfast at noon.” John laughed and dropped his cereal in the sink to pet Martha, who had been weaving herself through his legs as they walked. Which wasn’t all that graceful since Martha had the maneuverability of a double decker bus. 

“Well you know how it is. We’re almost ready to look for a location now.” He said enthusiastically, and Paul tried his best to be happy for John. 

“That’s great, honestly!” He smiled and turned away, clearing away a space on the kitchen bench for him to sit upon. There was a backdoor of the house open somewhere, and Paul could feel the gentle breeze streaming through the house.

“Yeah, it’s shaping up good. Tea?” Paul accepted and was handed a mug of steaming tea from a mug that proclaimed he was the ‘World’s biggest knob’. Paul huffed a laugh at the description and looked dryly at John, who was oblivious to his blunder. 

“Nice mug.” John looked at him curiously, his own mug of tea pausing halfway on it’s journey to his mouth.

“What’d you mean I haven’t shaved yet- oh the cup, yeah Hazza got it for me.” He laughed, looking down at his own mug to make sure he wasn’t being insulted too. 

“How is George, anyway. He was still moping around the last time I saw him.” Paul changed the subject abruptly, and John shrugged.

“Just being George, you know how it is. As far as I know it's just teenage angst.” Paul snorted into his mug.

“John, the lad’s twenty three.” Paul reminded him, and John gave him a deadpan look.

“Really Paul, I thought he was still in nappies.” He said sarcastically. “George is just being George. There’s nothing we can do. He’ll get over himself at some point.” 

“What was it that he was- MARTHA!” Paul’s gaze travelled absently over to the window as they talked, just in time to see Martha bolt out from the back door and start sprinting down the hill. 

He dumped his mug in the sink and scrambled after her, vaulting over a pile of John’s dirty laundry and tumbling out the back door. 

He was terrified of Martha’s foot catching in a rabbit hole or an adder taking a bite out of her, so he launched himself after her, feet barely getting under him as he chased her down the hill and towards the fence that bordered John’s property.

The man himself was following Paul as best he could with a blood alcohol probably still above the legal limit.

They approached the fence quickly, and as Martha slipped underneath with ease, Paul looked ahead and saw the object of her fancy, a dark tabby currently gently lapping from a bird bath near the back doors of the house at the bottom of the hill, completely unaware of the furball barrelling towards them.

“ MARTHAAAAA!”  Paul hollered, but the wayward dog paid him no heed. 

“You stuid git, get back here!” He heard John yell, and Paul didn’t know if he was yelling at the dog or himself. 

Paul vaulted the fence with little difficulty, but he heard John get into some trouble behind him, in the form of a smack and a swear. 

He glanced back to see John tangled upside down in the fence, and he faltered, slowing down as John struggled to get out.

He looked to Martha, who was drawing closer to the bird bath.

“Shit.” He bolted back to John, pulling him out of the fence and dumping him on the grass with a curse. 

John cursed him out and clutched his chest, but Paul ignored him and looked back to Martha, who had now reached the bird bath and jumped up to place her front paws on the high stone bowl. 

The cat, now scared out of its life, hissed and swiped at Martha with its claws. 

“Martha NO!” He yelled, just as he noticed movement out of the corner of his left eye, and a large square came sailing into his vision to smack Martha right on the nose, making her howl and abandon her quarry, racing back to Paul. 

As the square bounced back and fell face-up onto the grass, Paul recognised it as the album sleeve of a Lesley Gore record. 

Notes:

Story is going to be pretty Ringo-centric for the next few chapters

Also thinking of doing a modern F1 McStarr AU, so lmk if thats something that would interest anyone 0_0
tho ill prolly do it either way

Chapter 7: The World Will Be For The Common People

Summary:

“Then the world will be for the common people, and the sounds of happiness will reach the deepest springs. Ah! Come! People of every land, how can you not be roused.”

― Karl Marx, The Communist Manifesto

 

7334 words

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” A deep scouse voice echoed through the garden, and Paul looked in the direction the record sleeve had flown from to see a very hungover man in a black t-shirt and striped pajama trousers at least two sizes too big for him standing in the open french doors of the house.

He was in a similar state to John, although his hair wasn’t quite as insane as the man currently groaning on the ground behind him. 

“I could ask you the same! You just hit my dog!” Paul yelled back as Martha hid behind him, snuffling a still whining John. 

The man squinted at him, folded arms dropping to his sides as the sun blazed in his eyes.

“And you’re on my property, lad!” He accused, “Now fuck off!” He demanded, and Paul wasn’t one to argue with a hungover man technically in the right, so he complied, grabbing Martha’s collar and ushering her back through the fence.
He tried to usher John too, but the man was not having it.
“Fuck off, would’ja Paul?! My chest’s collapsing.” He whined, and Paul heard the man behind them swear.

“John Lennon, is that you?” Both men paused, and John looked between Paul’s legs at the man, who was squinting even fiercer. 

“Ringo?” John exclaimed, and Paul looked back in surprise. This was the Ringo that George was moping over?

“You’re Ringo?” Paul called incredulously, and Ringo crossed his arms and widened his stance. As his feet moved, Paul noticed the metal brace on his foot, and on another look the still vivid wound on his forehead he had been told about, both from George and the papers. 

“Don’t say it like it’s some great disappointment. ‘Course I am. And you’re still on my property.” Paul looked up at the elegant house behind the disheveled man, and raised an eyebrow.

“You live here?” He questioned, and Ringo raised both eyebrows.

“Yes, and you’ll be living six feet under it if you keep on being a knob, now leave.” He insisted, and John waved a hand, still on the ground.

“Give your neighbour a break, lad. I’m having a heart attack here.” He wheezed, flipping onto his back and rubbing his sternum. 

Paul watched as Ringo sighed and limped over to the bird bath, the tabby now long gone, and picked up his record sleeve, wiping off any damage Martha may have made to the stone bowl and striding back to the open french doors.

“Just be gone when I get back.” He threw over his shoulder, and he disappeared into the house, leaving Paul, John, and Martha out on the grass.

“Cheerful man.” Paul commented, and John groaned as he sat up. 

“Become a right wanker, too.” He added, and pulled on the back of Paul’s belt to help him to his feet. Paul yelped and staggered back, but quickly regained his balance and helped John to the fence.
“Really? Once a cunt, always a cunt to me.” 

John shrugged and groaned as he climbed over the wooden barrier.
“He seemed a good lad when we was in the hospital, but people change.”

 Paul looked back at the house as they started up the hill, Martha trotting happily in front of them.

“He looked hungover to me.” Paul offered, but John shook his head. 

“He weren’t hungover when he dumped us at the airport like that.” John insisted. 

“Did you know he was your neighbour?” He questioned, and John gave him a dry look.

“If I did, would I still be living here?” Paul scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. 

“Don’t be a girl. He looks like a man who values his privacy, so I'm sure if you mind your business, he’ll mind his own.” He suggested, and John grumbled in silence, which Paul took as a sign to drop the subject.

“So how did you cock up jumping the fence so badly?”

 

Despite Paul dropping the subject in conversation, his mind wouldn’t let go of what John had said about Ringo being ‘a good lad in the hospital’. 

John had later suggested it was boredom, that Ringo was nice to them because he didn’t want to be alone in the hospital room, but Paul thought that sold George short. 

George wasn’t stupid. He would know if the smile on someone’s face was fake or not, and he wouldn’t be afraid to call them out on it. He had done it before, to almost disastrous effect when they were on tour. 

It confused Paul in many ways, but for the moment he didn’t have time to care. 

He left John’s house just before dusk after running through some details for the upcoming broadcast later that month. He was filling in for Brian, who was still pissed at John for his comments about indoctrinating children. 

The studio came into the beam of his headlights, and Paul managed to find a nearby parking space just as the street lamps turned on. 

He recognised George’s car nearby as well, and when he entered the studio, he could hear him too.

“-yeah and that’ll be near the opening, yeah.” Paul followed the sound of his band mate’s voice and ended up in one of the conference rooms scattered around the studios.

George sat amongst Brian, Mal, and two suited men facing away from Paul that he vaguely remembered, and they animatedly conversed over a table scattered with papers and pens. 

Although he couldn’t recall who the suited men were, Paul knew instantly that they were outsiders to the inner workings of the studio. He knew John always encouraged the staff to break the strict dress code of the studio, and for the most part he had succeeded, with even the most formal and uptight employees loosening their ties.

But these men had tight ties and three piece suits, with golden cufflinks that shined as they gestured to George.

“That’ll create a dynamic space within the entrance, I agree. First impressions are very important.” One of the men said, and Paul cleared his throat. 

George looked up over the men’s shoulders and waved.

“Afternoon, Paul!” He greeted, and everyone turned to the door. 

“Evening, actually.” Paul corrected. “What’s going on here?” Everyone looked at each other, even Brian, until George spoke up.

“We’re finalising the opening of the store.” George was aware of Paul's dislike of the supposed ‘Boutique’ as well, though he cared less about Paul’s opinion than John. 

“Oh… may I see?” He was handed a small stack of papers, and Paul stepped out into the hallway to read, skimming through the small print.

They were shockingly close to completion of the project, with the lease of the actual store being paid on the next Friday. 

The cover page of the stack Paul had been given seemed ever so slightly insane, and the confusion on Paul’s face grew as he flipped through the stack. 

“Paul?” George had stepped out of the conference room as well, shutting the door behind him, and he approached his bandmate with a small smile.

Paul turned to him, intent on ripping the paper in half and chewing George out, but then he could see his nervousness written all over George’s body, and the quiet optimism in his eyes.

“Alright George?” Paul said weakly, and George seemed to be encouraged by his lack of outright dismissal. 

“So what do you think?” He asked, digging his hands into his pockets. Paul shrugged helplessly. The small look of hopefulness was like kryptonite to Paul’s disgust, and he just couldn’t find it within him to shoot George’s balloon down. 

“It's- uh… it’s ambitious.” He mumbled, and the other man nodded eagerly.

“Yeah! That’s the plan-!” He began to rave passionately about the potential for the store to bring opportunities for everyone, Paul had never seen him so excited, especially not since he had got back from Monaco. “-and anyway, I was hoping you, uh, would help promote it for me, y’know?” Oh no.
“Oh, um...In what way?” Paul said carefully, and George shrugged, sensing his hesitation. 

“Oh maybe some interviews, articles, all that- why are you looking at me like that?!” George demanded, and Paul maintained his look of unease.

“I’m just a little concerned, George, that’s all. It sounds like you don’t give a toss about anything business wise.” Paul said gently, and George’s smile disappeared.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He said angrily, and Paul winced as he folded his arms. 

“‘It’s a place for beautiful people to buy beautiful things’ What does ’beautiful things’ include, exactly?” Paul quoted from the papers in front of him, and looked up at George, who shrugged tightly.

“Clothes and accessories and the like.” He said defensively “It’s supposed to be a free market thing, against all the big brands.” He explained, and Paul looked back down to the papers. 

“But we are a big brand, George. We’re the Beatles, for chrissakes!” He pleaded, and when George didn’t say anything, Paul continued. “And what are you going to do when people steal, hm? Because they will! They’ll steal from you and call you a communist! And those men in there know they will too! But they don’t care because they’re not paying for the store, we are! And the more you need their help, the more we have to pay them, too!” George scoffed, stepping back.

“That’s all you care about, isn’t it? How much money you’re losing! You don’t care about the store, or what it could do, you just care about the money!” He accused, and Paul shook his head, dropping the papers into a heap on the floor and fully turning to George. 

“No, George, I care about you , and how I don’t want you to be taken advantage of by those suits!” He exclaimed “Because those suits see us as an endless pit of money, when our tax bracket says otherwise. And when that money runs out because they’re charging fee eight hundred and twenty for consultation for the profits going down the drain, the blame will be put on YOU.” Paul ended his tirade gasping for breath as George stood opposite, arms folded and a stony look upon his face. 

He could hear the men in the conference room fall silent too, and Paul dropped his hands by his side defeatedly as George refused to reply.

“Why are you doing this, George?” He questioned desperately. “This was just an idea a month ago… Why have you buried yourself into an idea like this? What are you trying to prove?” Still George kept his silence, and Paul studied the drained look on his face, the bags under his eyes and the bones starting to show through his skin. 

George looked like he was dying, ever so slowly.

The reason why hit Paul like the barrel of a tsunami.

“It’s that racer, isn’t it? The one that crashed? You’re trying to forget him.” Paul murmured, and George’s expression hardened.

“Don’t try and analyse me, Paul.” He warned, and Paul folded his arms.

“Deny it, then. Lie to me. Lie to my face and tell me you’re ok with what happened.” George’s silence said it all. “I met him today, y’know. If it makes you feel any better, he looks like shit too.” Paul stepped back in silence, locking eyes with George and daring him to reply, to say anything. 

When he refused, Paul snorted.
“You need to get your shit together, son, or you’re going to tear us all apart.” 

With that, he turned tail and strode away down the hall, not waiting for George’s reply. 

//0‑0\\ 

 

Ringo was drunk. And he wasn’t at home. 

The fundraiser was huge, and the alcohol was running like rivers through the building. 

The waiters practically plied it upon you, and the more you drank the harder it became to refuse. 

Drunk celebrities were easy to extract cash from, but thankfully Sellers had commandeered his chequebook early in the night for safe keeping. 

Ringo justified his inebriation with a celebration of the removal of his leg brace, being the final piece of medical equipment from the crash to be removed. It made his tuxedo fit him better as well.

He was plastered with sympathy drinks from young women who winked at him suggestively as he drained their Manhattan’s, their words dripping with praise about how he was so strong for surviving that crash . 

The fundraiser building was a large manor house on the outskirts of Surrey, and as the night progressed, more and more people arrived and more and more people filtered through the house to get some space. 

Ringo stuck to the main ballroom and dining rooms, where Negroni’s were within easy reach and where he could sit down if the room started to spin. 

He could feel Sellers watching him across the room as he drank his way through a conversation with a fashion designer, his manager's eyes burning a hole in the back of his head. 

When the designer left, promising to get Ringo on his runway some time, he knew Sellers was swooping in.

A hand darted out behind his back and skillfully stole the half empty daiquiri glass he had been about to drain, and Ringo gave Sellers a dry look as the man emerged from behind. 

“I would be remiss not to ask you to slow down.” He greeted, and Ringo scowled, trying to swipe back his drink.

“Last time I checked, this isn’t asking-” Ringo yelped as he lost his balance, far too easily to continue to fool Sellers of his sobriety. 

His manager caught him with ease, hooking his arms under Ringo’s and pushing him back up. 

“And now I'm telling you. Slow down or you'll do something you’ll regret.” Ringo swayed slightly as he scoffed.

“Since when?” He demanded, and Sellers turned around, casting an arm out to bring Ringo up beside him as they stood in the doorway of the ballroom and dining room. 

“Look who’s over there.” Sellers ordered firmly, and Ringo squinted into the ballroom, following Sellers’ finger. He eventually zoned in on a waiter serving a couple flutes of champagne.

“...A waiter?” He mumbled, and Sellers sighed.

“ No . Who are the people being served by the waiter?” Ringo then squinted at the couple, but then they turned away, seemingly absorbed by the crowd.

“I dunno.”
“It was the Ferrari managers, and I know you, my boy. You are very talkative when you’re drunk, and you’re just the type to wander over there and spill everything to Mr. and Mrs. Ferrari.” Ringo huffed and shrugged Sellers’ hand off his shoulder, stumbling away.

“Don’t try and analyse me, lad.” He said angrily, and he didn’t turn back when he heard Sellers call.

“Just slow down!” 

Ringo stalked through the manor angrily, winding through corridors and brushing past numerous celebrities so far gone he could make a mint out of selling their stories to the press. 

He would be the biggest hypocrite on the block though, so he kept walking.

He wasn’t stupid, he knew Sellers was right. So he kept his hands to himself as he passed smaller drinks tables and waiters who tried to hand him champagne. 

There were groups of celebrities in various stages of inebriation, so Ringo slid into a group slightly drunker than him who were attempting to play snooker in a smoking room and failing miserably.  

They were more than happy to have him, and he replaced a young model who was softly snoring in a corner, taking her cue and wildly missing the pocket with the 8-ball. 

“So what do you do for a living?” Ringo looked up from where he was trying to snooze standing upright as the next person had their turn, and he met the eye of a young musician he recognised from a few record sleeves he had seen last summer. Billy Preston, he faintly recalled.

Preston was looking at him curiously, his tightly curled hair leaning  to the side as he tilted his head. The low lighting filtered gently through the short style, with a haze in the room from several cigarettes casting an ethereal glow on his dark skin.

“I-I’m a driver.” He managed out, clutching his cue like a lifeline as the alcohol started to catch up with him. 

Preston chuckled softly.

“Like a chauffeur?” He questioned, and Ringo shook his head quickly, unsure as to why he was so concerned that Preston knew he was successful. 

“No no, racing. Formula One.” He insisted, and Preston nodded.

“Ah, that makes more sense. You’re far too pretty for anything else.” Preston said softly. The cue slipped out from under him as Ringo blanched, and he clutched the edge of the snooker table instead. 

Preston stepped forwards to grasp his forearms and steady him, and Ringo looked down blearily to see Preston’s hands on his body. 

“Hey, watch your step.” Preston said soothingly, and he led Ringo backwards towards a leather sofa, and Ringo allowed himself to fall back on the seat with a sigh, Preston’s hands still on his forearms. 

The musician sat down next to him, and Ringo had to fight not to let the compressing upholstery slide him down so he pressed against Preston. 

What the hell had Preston said?

“So you’re a Formula One racer?” Ringo relaxed slightly as the musician continued the conversation with a safe topic, and he nodded, eye’s now unwilling to move from a patch of carpet in front of him.

“I-I crashed, though.” He added, and Preston snapped his fingers, the other hand swiping a flute of champagne from a side table joined with the sofa. 

“Ah! That’s where I remember you! You crashed in Monaco, didn’t you!” Ringo nodded, and he scrubbed a hand across his face, feeling the warmth. He also felt Preston’s eyes on his forehead, staring at his slowly healing wound. 

“Was that from the crash too?” He questioned in barely a whisper, and a featherlight finger brushed over the wound. Ringo closed his eyes at the touch, beginning to enjoy the attention. 

“Yeah.” He responded in kind, and he could feel Preston’s heavy exhale on his throat. 

“Where else did you get hit?” Ringo opened his eyes and reached down, pulling up his trouser leg to show a long surgical scar that ran along the inside of his shin and disappeared into his sock.

He watched as Preston reached down and ran another light finger down the scar. And he shivered as the finger slid up his calf, beyond his scar. He dug his cigarettes from an inside pocket, slightly shaking fingers placing one between his lips. 

The finger disappeared, and Ringo looked to the side to see Preston pulling out his own cigarettes and lighter, and his eyes automatically focused on Preston’s lips grasping his own Marlboro.

What was the difference, really? They were just as beautiful as each other. 

He knew people like that. They always seemed happy. Maybe he would be happy too. 

He watched as Preston ignited his stick, but Ringo’s unsteady fingers could only produce a spark from his own lighter. 

“Here.” Preston held out his own lighter to him, and Ringo looked down at the silver device before looking at the burning cigarette in the actor's mouth. He felt the cigarette hanging from his own lips, the salty taste of the paper.

No difference, really.

He leaned forwards so the ends of their cigarettes touched, and his eyes locked with Preston’s both their pupils blown as smoke puffed from their mouths. 

He could smell the alcohol on Preston’s breath, and he internally praised the selection of bourbons the man had been consuming.

Ringo leaned back after a moment, watching Preston’s flushed face as he toked his Marlboro.

Internally, Ringo’s mind was going insane, screaming at him and demanding to know what he had just done. Had he really just done that? And where was the regret?!

They sat in silence for several moments, and Ringo watched as the snooker game devolved into a drunken mess, a hazy calm settling over him as he felt Preston’s eyes on his forehead yet again. 

“Have you got any more scars?” He asked, trying to be nonchalant though Ringo could hear the excitement in his voice. 

He nodded and tapped his stomach, drawing Preston’s eyes down.

“Can I see?” He whispered, barely audible in the chatter of the room. Ringo felt a strange daring in his chest, akin to the feeling of leading a woman through his house late at night.

It was anticipation, although very small. 

“I can’t just strip my shirt here.” Ringo pointed out, exhaling smoke through his nose as he gazed languidly throughout the room. He pointed his cigarette hand at the model still snoring in the corner. “There’s ladies in the room.” He pointed out, and Preston nodded.

“I can show you somewhere without anyone else?” He proposed gently, and Ringo found himself nodded as he processed what Preston was saying. “Here, this way.” 

Preston held out his hand to haul up an unsteady Ringo, who found himself stumbling after the lanky man, their hands still linked. 

Preston’s hand was warm within his own, soft and so smooth Ringo didn’t even consider letting go. 

He followed as Preston found a deserted room and he stepped inside a small drawing room, Preston looked out into the corridor before shutting the door. Ringo stood by the entrance, unsure of what to do with himself and still swaying gently in the non existent breeze. 

He furrowed his brow as Preston flicked on the tv in the corner, and the sounds of men and women talking and singing in German filled the room. 

“What’s that for?” Ringo managed out as Preston approached, and he didn’t protest when the man took his hands in his own.

“There were some people down the hall. It’s just so we can do what we want without eavesdroppers.” Preston explained, his voice soft and comforting. 

“W-what are we going to do?” Ringo whispered, and Preston cocked his head again.

“You’re new to this, aren’t you?” The question was rhetorical, but Ringo nodded anyway.

“Well I’m honoured to be the one to have converted such a pretty-boy.” Preston stepped closer, their bodies almost touching. 

Ringo knew that Preston was being careful. His eyes searched Ringos for any kind of resistance or fear, but he found none. 

In Preston’s eyes, he found only careful anticipation. 

“Well, usually it’s the same as what you do with women. You kiss them.” Preston’s lips were only a few inches from Ringo’s own, and he watched them get closer until he could wait no longer and closed the gap.

It was different to kissing women. Preston was softer, willing to take the lead rather than expecting Ringo to power ahead. 

Preston’s hands slid past his tuxedo jacket, running along the fabric of his shirt and making Ringo sigh at the touch.

It was nice to just let someone else do the work.

If he ignored the fact that it was a man, it wasn’t even awkward for him. 

He didn’t like to be the inexperienced one in a relationship, and with his lips pressed against Preston’s his brain was frantically rushing around and trying to compare scenarios to calculate what he should do next. 

But as Preston broke away, it didn’t seem to Ringo like he’d done too bad.

“How was that?” Preston asked with a smile, and Ringo returned it.

“Good. Do it again?” 

“Sure.” This time, as they kissed, Preston led him over to one of the squishy sofas near the TV.

“I don’t suppose if you know if you’re a top or a bottom kinda guy?” Preston asked lightly, and Ringo shrugged, eager to meet Preston’s lips again.

It was intoxicating, and Ringo knew he was getting bolder before Preston pushed him down on the wide sofa, and he only watched as the man managed to lie beside him.

“So do you wanna be on top, or on bottom.” Ringo shrugged again and pulled Preston on top, giggling as their bodies collided and Preston scrambled to find his lips again. 

The weight of the other man was more than he had ever had with a woman, but it was strangely nice as he slid a hand down Preston’s thigh and pulled his knee up, making Preston laugh into the kiss. 

“You’re getting better at this.” Preston praised 

“Good enough for you?” Ringo mumbled, tasting the liquor on Preston’s tongue. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well you deserve the world.” Ringo whispered, lacing his fingers on the small of Preston’s back, now making the other man shiver.

“Don’t flatter me, love.” But still Preston met Ringo’s lips, and for a while that’s all they did, revelling in the other man’s body and taste. 

It was freeing for Ringo, and his pleasure grew with each shift of Preston on top of him. 

It didn’t feel wrong to him, only secret, like the breaths they shared were meant for each other only. 

It was a stark contrast to the expectation that when he got with women, it would be in the papers and the gossip columns the next day, and Ringo would get a slap on the back from a coworker and a wink from another woman.

 

They switched after awhile, and it was almost even better to be on top but have someone else touch you not for their own pleasure but for yours, and the way Preston’s hands gently tugged at Ringo’s shirt until it came untucked gave plenty of time for the driver to refuse, but he simply smiled and moved his mouth to Preston’s neck and peppered the smooth skin with kisses as he felt warm hands explore his chest and run along the scars of his stomach. 

 

But soon Preston’s hands slowed, and his breaths became deeper, and Ringo felt his head tilt to the side against his own. He chuckled as he heard soft snores start to escape Preston’s red lips, the contact puffing them up slightly.

“Am I really that bad?” He whispered, but only jokingly. He felt sleep tug at his eyes too, and he slid his body off Preston’s to rest between the sofa and the actors side. 

He let his eyes close too, but they flew open at the sound that broke the soft silence.

“Love, love, love.” It was mixed with a loud fanfare of horns and trumpets, but it was the underlying melody that triggered a painful flashback of memories  that made Ringo wince. 

“ There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done…” He was sitting across from a man with a guitar. 

His head hurt and the man laughed. 

Ringo scrambled off the sofa, clambering carefully over Preston’s sleeping body and tipping onto the floor. 

The TV was blaring in the corner, flashing bright yellows and soft oranges. 

“Nothing you can make that can't be made”

The man played a melody, but wouldn’t tell him the name. He said it was about love.
“All you need is love.” Ringo crawled forwards, the pleasured haze in his mind fading fast. 

The man was on the TV, singing into a microphone. The man wanted to start a revolution. 

Ringo knew who it was before the tv flashed with a close-up on his face. 

John Lennon had said he was alright.

He looked to the side to see Preston, but when he blinked instead sat George Harrison on the sofa where Preston had been, looking down upon him with a disappointed expression.

When he blinked again, Harrison was gone. 

He looked back to the TV, he was there, decked out in bright clothes and strumming a guitar. 

He didn’t recognise George like he thought he should. He only saw the face that had come to him before the race. Something told him there should be more, in the way that George looked into the camera, and in the way that Ringo recognised the smile on his face. 

But there was nothing, only vague clouds of embarrassment and shame. 

 

Ringo stumbled out of the drawing room, hastily tucking his shirt in and swiping the nearest drink off a tray. He blindly weaved through the corridors, barely seeing a foot in front of him and mind ten thousand miles away. 

He stumbled into the main ballroom, and he could see the disapproval on his manager’s face as he drained the glass in his hand, but Ringo discarded the flute on a nearby table and grasped Sellers on either wrist.

“What happened...to me?” He demanded, and Sellers’ brows rose as Ringo’s grip on his wrists loosened.

“Oh...You were in hospital.” 

“What did I do?” Sellers didn’t respond for a moment, staring curiously into Ringo’s eyes. He knew Ringo wasn’t talking about the crash.

“I don’t know. You weren’t yourself, though, that I know. It was seeing you through a mirror. You were different, somehow.” Ringo let Sellers’ hands drop, and he stepped back, mind turning over slowly.

It wasn’t an earth shattering revelation, but it wasn’t unsurprising. 

“Am I me now?” He questioned, and Sellers nodded.

“Yes. You’ve changed, but yes.” 

 

//0‑0\\ 

 

The next morning, Paul stood outside a door almost identical to John’s, Martha standing between his legs yet again although this time with a collar and lead secured around her neck.

He knocked firmly upon the door and rang the bell for good measure. 

The inside of the house was silent, until vague shuffling sounds could be heard, and the door swung open to reveal the most hungover man Paul had ever seen.

“Uh, hello?” Ringo’s opening was half a question, half a greeting, and Paul took a few seconds to respond as he processed the man’s familiar crumpled black t-shirt, too big pajama trousers now cropped at knee length, and dark crescent moons the size of a fifty pence pieces under his eyes. 

Ringo was squinting in the summer sunlight, and he stood awkwardly in the doorway, obviously having just woken up.

Paul realised with a start that Ringo was waiting for an answer, so he straightened up and thrust the bottle of fine whiskey he had brought to the man, only now realising that it was probably a bad time. 

“Here!”

“A bit early for it, hm?” Ringo stared at the bottle, but cautiously took it anyway, cradling it in one arm.

“It’s an apology.” Paul clarified. “For what happened with Martha the other day.” 

“Martha?” Paul shook the lead in his hand, and Ringo’s glace down was slow and lethargic. 

Paul narrowed his eyes.

“Are you still drunk?” He questioned, and Ringo drew his gift closer to his chest.

“No!” He said defensively. “Are you?” He countered, and Paul blinked in confusion.

“What? No- Look. I just wanted to apologise, but obviously this is a bad time for you.” Paul said placatingly, and Ringo shrugged.

“If this is a bad time then there won’t ever be a good one.” He said pragmatically, earning himself a sigh. “Don’t worry about the dog. The cat sleeps in a spare room now.” Paul knew his last statement was supposed to be a dismissal, but he wasn’t quite done yet. 

He wasn’t quite sure how to say it without sounding demanding or pandering, so he shuffled on the spot for several moments as Ringo swayed slightly and stared.

“Look, do you want to come out with me and get some food? You look like you could use it.” Paul offered, and Ringo cocked his head.

“Seriously?” He said skeptically, and Paul nodded insistently. 

“Yeah, ‘mon. Or you’ll turn into a ghost.” He proclaimed, and he could see the cogs turning in Ringo’s head. “We’ll only be as long as you want to be.” 

“Fine. Just give me a ‘mo.” He retreated into the house, leaving Paul on the doorstep. “You can come in if you want.” He threw over his shoulder, and promptly disappeared up a staircase. 

Paul cautiously stepped into the house, keeping Martha close as he entered the kitchen/main room. 

It was in less of a state than Paul had expected. When John opened his door after a night he could only assume to be similar to Ringo’s, his house was always a bombsite. 

But this time it looked like the fun had been had somewhere else. 

There was a cold mug of tea on the counter, but no kettle in sight, and a bottle of paracetamol was sitting next to a half empty glass of water. 

He let Martha sniff around, following her around idly as he waited for the other man. 

She led him over to a slightly ajar door across from the kitchen bench, and Martha nosed her way inside. 

Paul was dragged behind, and he caught a flash of gold within the room before thumping footsteps widened his eyes and he hauled both dog and human arse out to greet Ringo, who was looking slightly more presentable in a black shirt and jeans. He had rolled the sleeves of the shirt up, a sign of the strengthening summer.

“G'head then.” Ringo grumbled, and Paul scrambled to the door. 

 

Paul could tell Ringo was not in the best of moods. 

“Where exactly are we going?” They cruised down a busy street, and Paul looked over to Ringo as they were caught in more endless traffic.

“There’s a cafe near the studio. They let us use a back table and they keep it quiet for us. We’ve been going there for years.” Paul explained, and Ringo nodded absently. 

“Nice place?” Paul nodded back.

“Yes. Lovely people, too.” They pulled onto the street with the cafe, and out of the corner of his eye, Paul could see Ringo gazing at the faded  sign above the entrance that proclaimed a ‘Maud’s Cafe’. 

Paul silently praised the hours of practice he had inadvertently spent from years of fitting into tight parking spots in front of the studio as he slid into the parking spot right in front of the cafe on the first try. He was somewhat nervous driving with a professional beside him, parking even more so, but when said professional was incredibly hungover it made it easier. 

Ringo followed behind Martha as Paul led the way into the cafe, and the older lady serving at the counter lit up the place with her smile when she saw them. 

“Paul! My dear I've missed you!” Her eyes flicked to Ringo, and her smile faltered slightly as confusion flashed across her face. “And a new face! I thought you was lovely Pete for a moment, my love.” She said apologetically, and Paul stepped in as Ringo awkwardly nodded and smiled back. 

“This is Ringo, Ms. Caterham. A friend of ours.” He didn’t catch Ringo’s wince at his last words, and it seemed like Ms Caterham didn’t either.

“Well a friend of Paul’s is a friend of mine! Your usual table is free, my love.” She said warmly. “I’ll be over in just a minute to take your order.” Paul thanked her and waved Ringo over to a small 4 seater table tucked away in the far corner of the cafe, the rest of the tables occupied with businessmen with their noses in the finance section of the newspaper. 

Martha happily sat between Paul’s legs under his seat, and Ringo sat opposite, cradling his chin in one hand and taking the proffered menu from Paul with his other. 

Paul watched the other man as he slowly flicked through the paper sheets, analysing every ingredient before moving onto the next dish. 

It reminded him of George Martin reviewing his song sheets, or Brian analysing his proposed tour locations. Like watching a master at work, or just someone with a job on the line. 

“So. How do you feel?” Paul tried to break the quiet silence between them, and cringed when Ringo didn’t look up.

“I have a headache and I'm trying not to throw up on your shirt.” Paul fought the urge to lean back.
“Fun night then.” He furrowed his brow at the small smile that appeared on Ringo’s face, but then it was gone just as quick as it appeared. 

“Yeah. It was a fundraiser for an art gallery in Manchester. More of a gala than a fundraiser really.” This seemed to be a safer topic than his health. “I saw your broadcast, too.” He added, and Paul grinned.

“Why, was it one of the performances?” He joked, and Ringo coughed.

“No- I, uh, managed to get away for a few minutes, and I caught the start on a TV.” He explained, and Paul wanted to enquire as to what he meant by ‘get away’ but at that moment, Ms. Caterham returned with a small notebook and a smile. 

“Are you boys ready to order yet?” She said brightly, and Paul blinked.
“Uh- yes! If I can get the complete breakfast with tea, that’d be great, thanks.” Ms Caterham nodded as she transcribed his words, then looked to Ringo.

“Can I get uh…. Do you have just eggs on toast?” He asked nervously.
“Of course we do my love. What drink will you be having with that?” Ringo quickly flicked to the back pages of the menu and scanned the list of drinks. 

“A ginger beer will do me, thanks.” She nodded and left. As soon as she was out of earshot, Paul broke out into a smile. 

“I never took you for a ginger beer man.” Ringo shrugged. 

“‘S good for a hangover, innit?” Paul copied Ringo’s shrug

“Wouldn’t know. I don’t drink enough to get a hangover.” Ringo snorted, setting down the menu and crossing his arms. 

“You’re telling me that you never got plastered after a show, not even last night?” Paul shook his head. 

“I wanna remember it all. When I drink, it takes everything away.” Ringo sniffed as Ms Caterham brought their drinks over, and once they had thanked her and she had departed, he shook his head. 

“That’s the point of it all, int’ it? So you don’t repeat mistakes.”

Paul snorted.

“Nope. It’s sucking happiness from tomorrow.” He proclaimed, making Ringo chuckle as he sipped his ginger beer, the ginger soothing his stomach slightly. 

“Can’t suck what you don’t have.” Paul barked a laugh, startling Martha under the table.

“Bollocks! Don’t play mopey with me.” Ringo raised an eyebrow with a smirk. 

“You don’t believe me?” He challenged, but Paul didn’t rise to the bait. 

“You won’t win any races feeling sorry for yourself and hiding from everyone with a hangover.” He pointed at Ringo with a smile, and the man shook his head disbelievingly, a small lighthearted grin still on his face. 

“Oh so holier-than-thou. ‘Sides, I ain’t racing like this.” Paul furrowed his brow. 

“Like what? Hungover?” He questioned curiously, and this time it was Ringo’s turn to laugh.

“No, genius, like me.” He gestured to his whole body. “I’m blacklisted from the sport right now. And I’m being held together by stitches and metal screws.” 

Paul cringed in sympathy, but Ringo brushed him off. “It’s not a problem. I’ll manage somehow.” 

They were once again interrupted by Ms Caterham, this time with their food, and Paul took the opportunity to try and shift the conversation again. 

“But... aside from all that...how are you?” Ringo didn’t respond for a few moments, cutting up his food and pushing it around his plate. Paul occupied himself with his own plate as he waited for an answer, trying not to let his curiosity bleed into his voice.

“Fine. trying to keep myself busy. There’s more to racing than sitting behind the wheel.” He said vaguely, and Paul nodded as he reached for the sauce.
“Yeah I’ve found that’s true for most jobs that aren’t all that easy to get into. It’s more work than people realise.” Ringo smirked.

“Why, do the fans not realise Paul McCartney has to do paperwork sometimes?” Paul shook his head ruefully. 

“More like the road managers. ‘Oh Paul, come meet these reporters!’ Sorry mate, I'm trying to file my taxes here.” Ringo pointed his knife at him in agreement.

“Or right after a race, after I've been sitting in my own piss for two hour, I get hauled off to do a press conference!” He bemoaned, and Paul nodded earnestly. 

“It’s the same with shows, when you’ve been sweating under those lights you’re like a bloody grease bucket.” 

They continued to rant to each other as they ate their meals, sometimes sending flecks of sauce or beans flying as they gestured earnestly with their cutler. 

None of them had it easier than the other. For every hour Paul had spent clutching sore and bleeding fingers after gigs and practice, Ringo had spent the same hour taping up sprained ankles and wrists. 

The same anxiety Ringo felt before the lights on the track turned green was shared by Paul just before they ran out on stage. 

It was different, but just as rough, and just as rewarding. 

“-So Pete is off in the Bahamas for a fortnight, messing around with some woman promising him the world.” Paul explained, and Ringo drained the last of his ginger beer with a raised eyebrow.

“Why ain’t you with him. Take it as a holiday an’ everything?” Paul shrugged. 

“Its hard to get privacy, innit? Fans are quite literally everywhere .” 

“That’s why you buy a private island.” Ringo said grandly, like he was imparting some great knowledge onto Paul. 

“And buy the crown jewels to decorate it, hm?” He replied dryly, but Ringo scoffed.

“Oh come on, you lot’ve got to have a fair load of cash. I know people that have given you their mortgages for tickets and albums.”
“And then the tax office takes most of it.” Paul added, causing the other man to fold his arms curiously.

“How much?” 

“Over ninety percent.” Paul said disparagingly, and Ringo shook his head.

“Daylight robbery.” He said sympathetically, and Paul snorted. 

“And now...fucking…George wants to flush the rest down the drain.” He said with some difficulty, glancing around for any eavesdroppers. He wasn’t too keen about slagging off his bandmate, but he had said it now. No turning back. 

“What’d you mean?” Ringo looked apprehensive at the talk of George, but Paul pressed on anyway. 

“He’s starting a...boutique with John. A clothes shop. And they’re wasting money we don’t have.” He said quietly, Ringo widened his eyes slightly as he dug in his pockets for a pack of cigarettes, and he silently offered one to Paul, who accepted gratefully.

“Thanks. Yeah, he’s getting help from these stock brokers and designers and investors, and all I can see is how they’re taking advantage of him.” Ringo hummed as he lit their cigarettes with a match. 

“And the cash is coming from yourselves... not the studio?” He inquired, leaning back thoughtfully. Paul nodded.

“Straight from us.” Ringo looked intrigued, and Paul just hoped he wasn’t about to join George’s side, although based on current events, he thought it unlikely. 

“Y’know… I might know someone who could help you with this. Don’t get your hopes up or anything....but your problems seem to be, key word on seem , to be around your tax status.” He said slowly, deliberating on each word. Paul frowned, wary of intentions.

“Now I hope you’re not about to ask for a commission or start talking about Swiss bank accounts.” He said with a nervous laugh, and Ringo blanched. 

“No, no! ” He said frantically. “Look, before I cock it up, I’ll talk to my manager about this, if you want, and then we can go from there, yeah?” Paul eyed the racer with a suspicious eye, watching the way his fingers drew little stars on the sauce flecks on the table and the way he leaned back on his chair with a slight bounce of his foot. 

“Alright. But let me know if anything comes up.” He acquiesced.

Notes:

We love and appreciate Billy Preston in this house

Chapter 8: East Wind Of Your Wishes

Summary:

"Is it Nineveh
and are you Jonah
in the sweltering east wind of your wishes?"

Is Your Town Nineveh? - By Marianne Moore

Notes:

Late chapter this time - finished about two weeks ago but just did not care :)

The crowd roared with the passion of a frenzied army, and this time, Ringo could join them.

The rally car tore past them, hitting the small dirt ramp with enough speed to clear Ringo’s head as he stood at the side of the dirt track. 

The sound of the engine being pushed to its limit and then beyond was like music to his ears, and the absence of the usual ankle deep mud beside the track made it even better. 

The summer sun beat down on the crowd Ringo was immersed in, and he could practically see skin reddening before his eyes. 

“What a jump, ey?!” A lanky man elbowed him earnestly, and Ringo grinned.

“Bloody brilliant!” The rally car zoomed away to the corner at the end of the track, the exhaust backfiring with a bang that made the crowd yell in approval. They were left in the dust of its wake, but the approach of the next car would lift their spirits even further. 

Rally was a whole different to Formula One, or any other racing really. 

It was a community, and the free beer that had been pressed into Ringo’s hand proved it. 

Each race was adrenaline filled even for the spectators, and there had been rumours of close calls with people standing too close to the track. 

But that made it even better, and as Ringo watched each car fly over the jump, he was sometimes content with staying a spectator. 

He leaned against a tree that lined the track, listening to the buzz of the next engine to come flying over the ridge and towards the dirt ramp. 

The vibrations in the dirt grew stronger as the rally car, a battered hatchback with a cracked windscreen, turned around the corner onto the long straight that led up to Ringo’s position. 

It rocketed over the jump, and his voice joined the deafening cheer as it landed with a crunch. 

“What a show, hm?” A low voice behind Ringo murmured into his ear as the noise of the crowd and the car quieted down.

Ringo turned curiously, and the Ferrari logo on the man’s shirt was like a smack in the face.

He looked up to the man’s face, and recognised him as the team principal of Ferrari, Eric Clapton.

Ringo tried to step back in shock, but the bodies around him were packed tight.

Images of the hard faces of executives calmly informing him of his contract termination rose like a ugly hand in the darkness, gripping his mind and draining away his good mood.

Emotionless faces of team bosses and drivers at the crash review meeting, the murderous looks when the investigation was inconclusive.

Ringo knew he was as white as a sheet.

“Uh- hello. Yes, it is a good show.” Clapton smiled and nodded, starting to step back from the track and beckoning Ringo into the woods beside the track. 

He followed apprehensively, gripping his beer can and glancing back at the crowds at the track. 

If this was how he disappeared, god help him. 

“I just wanted to express my sympathies at your dismissal from BRM. It can be hard, being kicked out of a team you’ve invested so much in.” Clapton said smoothly, and Ringo gave him a strained smile. 

“Well it wasn’t the most ideal outcome.” He said uncomfortably. “But who knows what the boss thinks.” Clapton hummed in agreement, folding his arms.

“Well just as long as you’re alright, hm?” He said firmly, and Ringo gave a nervous chuckle. 

“I’ve never had this much concern from another team’s boss before.” Clapton raised his eyebrows.

“I’m not really another team boss if you’re not on a team in the first place.” Ringo felt like he had just been slapped. He would’ve preferred the strike to whatever this was.

“Right.” Was all he said. 

“It’s a shame that such a bright star like you should be out of the paddock so early.” Clapton continued “You should be careful of who you approach next.” Ringo furrowed his brow at the cryptic remark, his brain acting like it was filled with sand. 

“I-“ 

“Call me if you ever need any help with it.” Ringo felt a card being pressed into his palm, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Clapton’s sanguine smile. 

“I-uh…are you offering me a spot?” He stuttered, and Clapton barked a patronising laugh.

“Of course not. We haven’t seen you race yet. But we’ll be watching.” He slapped Ringo’s shoulder with a crocodile grin and strode away, leaving Ringo with a half empty beer can and a business card burning a hole through his hand. 

 

//0‑0\\ 

 

“Did you ever find out who moved in at the bottom of the hill?” John looked back to Cynthia as she cleaned up the remains of their dinner, and he glanced out of the window to the dormant house and the stretches of grass that divided them. It was a rough night, with a fierce summer storm howling and beating at the windows.

“Yeah. It was the bloke we met in Monaco.” He turned back to his guitar, carefully unwinding the strings from the tuning pegs. 

Cynthia gave a noise of surprise, her hands still submerged in the hot water in the sink.

“That racing driver?” She questioned, and John nodded distractedly. 

Ringo had fallen from his mind since the incident with Martha, and although he partially understood George’s reason, he was beginning to get annoyed at everyone else’s apparent fixation with the man. 

“Didn’t know we lived here.” He added after a moment, moving onto the next string after removing the first. 

“What a coincidence.” Cynthia commented. “Does he know now?” 

“Hm-? Oh yeah, Paul and I met him the other day.” He mumbled, cursing as the string flicked off and sliced his finger. 

“Oh, how was he?! I saw the picture of his car in the papers, an awful sight.”

John snorted at his wife's empathy.

“Shoulda seen the man himself,” He muttered under his breath. “He was a right state when we saw him. Hungover most likely.” He explained, and Cynthia tutted as she drained the water in the sink. 

From the corner of his eye, John could see her gazing out of the window and down to Ringo’s house. No lights could be seen at the windows, and the garage was all locked up as the wind roared and bashed at the doors. 

“Poor lad.” She muttered, “Maybe I'll bring him some cake or something tomorrow.” She  considered, and John scoffed. 

“I wouldn’t waste your time. Turned into a right piece of work, he has.” Cynthia gave him a side eye. 

“You said that before. Why?” John paused, his hands stilling on his last guitar string.
“Well, because he left George.” John said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, but Cynthia just shrugged and started to dry the washed dishes. “What, do you not think so?” 

“I don’t know. But from what I've heard, I think there’s more to it.” She said calmly. John laughed scornfully.

“And what have you heard?” He asked

“People talk about the aftermath of horrible events, and how it changes people. Like soldiers.” She explained. John sniffed and started to restring the guitar, fiddling with the bridge. 

“He didn’t fight in France, Cyn, he drove into a harbour.” He could feel her hard eyes on his turned back. 

“Y’know I expected a little more maturity from you, John. If you just think about someone other than yourself for once, you could see how it might have affected him.” 

“And why are you his white knight all of a sudden? If that git down the hill wants to apologise and put this all behind us, he can. But until then, he can go and fuck himself.” 

“I just think that there might be a reason why he hasn’t reached out to George!” Cynthia said frustratedly, and John set the guitar down angrily. 

“How is that my problem?! How is that George’s problem?!” He demanded “That fucker broke George’s heart, Cyn. And I don’t want anything to do with him.” 

//0‑0\\ 

 

Ringo slumped in the bench across from the tall townhouse looking out upon the huge park behind him. 

It stood tall and proud, a mocking presentation to him as he had left and crashed on the bench. The psychiatrist was recommended by the FIA directly, but all Ringo saw in him was a hack with a superiority complex. 

Dismissive and rude, prescribing him more meds but not the right ones. He gave him meds that made him sick, made him drowsy, made him sit on a bench and stare.

He watched a woman slowly make her way down the street, counting house numbers and letting her gaze flick back and forth between a scrap of paper in her palm and the tall buildings to her right. 

When she stopped at the door Ringo had just departed from, he wanted to call out, warn her, but his voice was stuck in his chest and the woman disappeared inside, none the wiser. 

He stared at the closed door, hands in his pockets and hair being blown gently off his forehead by an eastern wind. 

The noises of the park around him faded to a dull murmur, the odd laugh or shriek of joy from a child occasionally breaking through. 

That woman walking into that townhouse for the first time had been him not so long ago. 

He wondered if she would come to inhabit the bench soon. 

He supposed he had been as unsure as she was, not that he remembered. Memories seemed to be on hold these days. Important things were remembered, of course. But the memory of walking down a quiet street that lined Hyde Park escaped him. 

A lot of things escaped him now. Sometimes it felt like his brain was one big cloud, and he was trying to corral his thoughts with a stick.

Maybe it was better this way. 

He couldn’t remember the pitying looks, but their ache still lingered. 

Maybe one day he’ll forget everything. Forget that he was even a racing driver, forget Sellers, forget his plunge, maybe even forget those memories of George. 

The ghosts of a face he saw when he woke up, like someone had sat at his bedside. 

Sometimes he could feel arms trying to steady his shoulders as he stumbled up the stairs at one in the morning, or the feeling of grass on his back as the sun hit his face. 

On a good day, he could recall the notes of a guitar. 

But now, all he could hear was the creaking of brakes as a car came to a slow stop on the road in front of him.

He opened the eyes he had not realised were closed, and watched as Sellers opened the door of a Chevy and slowly walked over to the bench with his hands on his hips. 

“You take those drugs, then?” It wasn’t a question, more of a statement, but Ringo nodded anyway. He blinked lethargically as Sellers sighed. “Well come on then.” He held out a hand for Ringo to stare at, and one more sigh later and he was being pulled up and helped towards the Chevy. 

Sellers spurred the front seat in favour of seating himself next to Ringo, who had his head pressed against the glass window and his hands still buried in his pockets.

Their driver was an old employee, so Sellers barely had to give him a nod and he was pulling away. 

“What did that doctor say today then?” It took Ringo a moment to realise he was being talked to, and when he did, they were already two hundred meters down the street. 

“He said I'm not showing progress.” Ringo said quietly, and Seller blinked.

“Well...Do you agree?” He said after a beat, and Ringo shrugged again.

“I’m not the expert.” He mumbled.

“Yes but it’s your head.” Sellers insisted “Do you think you’re getting any better or not?” Ringo slowly withdrew his hand from his pocket, clutching several prescriptions and handing them to Sellers. 

“The drugs don’t do anything.” He admitted, and Sellers nodded. 

“That’s that, then. We’ll get you a new psychiatrist.” But Ringo shook his head.

“Nah. I don’t want a new drug cocktail every week.” He protested. "It'll fry my brain...I’ll just keep trying with what I have...but I don’t want to go back there.” 

“Alright. We’ll see how it works for a month. If there’s no progress, then we’ll figure something out.” Ringo nodded, his awareness slowly trickling back. 

 

They drove in silence for another half hour, Sellers taking the time to do paperwork and Ringo enjoying the quiet rustling of the paper.

“You mentioned something about breakfast with that McCartney the other day, what happened with that?” Sellers asked absently as they turned onto the motorway, and Ringo started. He willed his brain to kick into gear and peeled his face off the window. 

“Paul- yeah. After the gala.” He confirmed “I wanted to-uh, talk about that. They're being ripped in half by their tax bracket.” Sellers paused in his shuffling of papers, giving him a curious side eye.

“Because of their earnings route?” 

Ringo nodded, pushing himself up in his seat.

“They need a hand. You sorted out my finances, maybe-” But Sellers was already shaking his head.

“No chance. Yours was very simple, not many streams of income, and I know the industry in and out. I haven’t the foggiest about what Epstein’s boys do.” He said firmly. Ringo sagged slightly in his seat, not looking forward to having to tell Paul he didn’t even get to square one. 

“So that’s it?” Ringo said dejectedly, but Sellers didn’t look so sure.
“Not....entirely. I’ll have to think it over, but I could get them in contact with some people. We wouldn’t have to get involved.” Sellers’ tone was bordering on considering, and he looked to Ringo curiously. “Would you want to get involved?” Ringo blanched slightly.

“I mean- if we don’t have to-” He spluttered 

“We could just drop and run-?”

“We don’t even have to do the drop, just like...pay for someone else to do it-”

“I could get a cousin- Well he is your cousin- ”
“My what?” Ringo choked out, and was subjected to another curious look.

“Ringo you haven’t forgotten what a cousin is, have you? It’s your uncle-” Ringo swatted his manager impatiently.

“Yes I know what a cousin is, knobhead. But why are we talking about him? And why is he doing your finances?” 

“He’s an heir to his father’s firm, Ringo. He’s learnt some things.” Seller justified, and Ringo did a double take. 

“Why are you talking about him like that? Do you talk to him or something?!” He accused incredulously, and Sellers shrugged defensively.

“Sometimes. I do it when you’re in a sulk about something. He’s like a happier you.” 

“I don’t sulk .” Ringo huffed, and turned away, but then realised he was just proving Sellers’ point. “I didn’t realise that his company actually did anything. I just thought it was a shell corporation for some king.” He muttered, and Sellers hummed. 

“His father is quite wealthy, I assure you. And the company is very real. I can put them in contact if you want?” Sellers offered, and Ringo, still wondering if he really did sulk all the time, shrugged distractedly.

“I mean- it’d probably go smoother…if we were there.” He reasoned, and Sellers nodded.

“What did you say to Parker- or Paul whatever his name is?”

“I just said I’d talk to you.” 

“We’ll you haven’t promised anything, then. How about this: I talk to your cousin and his father, then you introduce each other, and we’ll take it from there? Patrick-“

“Paul.” 

“-seemed nice anyway, if he gets along with you he’ll get along with….your cousin.”

“Have you forgotten his name too?”

//0‑0\\ 

 

“ Youngman Grand?!” Paul whisper-screeched, and Ringo had to shush him quickly as they threatened to draw curious stares from the patrons at Ms Caterham’s cafe.

“ Yes. He’s my cousin.” Ringo explained quietly.

“YOUR C-“ Paul cut himself off before Ringo burnt him with the cigarette that was being pointed threateningly in his direction. “Your cousin? B- since when?” Paul said disbelievingly 

“Since he was born? I don’t get your meaning.” Ringo furrowed his brow, causing Paul to huff his frustrations.

“No- I mean like, y’know you’re supposedly this rough and ready racer coming from the bottom but now you’re saying your cousin is the heir to a multinational acquisitions conglomerate? Grand and Son? He’s the son in Grand and Son?” Paul spluttered, and he had to take a drag of his own cigarette to stop himself before he started screaming again.

Ringo raised an eyebrow at the assessment but replied calmly.

“He was adopted a few years ago after his new father took a shine to the poor bugger after seeing him sleep in a park.” He explained, and Paul blinked.

“Lucky man.” He remarked, sitting back and folding his arms.

“Not in the casino.” Ringo smirked “But he and his old man should be able to help you lot out. We’ve already contacted them and they’re interested.” 

“Oh you’ve talked to them? Well I don’t know what rates they charge but-“

“Nothing. They’re quite, uh, whimsical about their money and time.” Ringo insisted, finishing off his cigarette and grinding it out slowly

Paul whistled in amazement.

“Well we’d love to have their help. Even if it’s just sorting out where we are. Money’s scattered all over the shop.”

“Then they’re the perfect help. I’ll put you in contact, Epstein too.” Paul nodded his thanks.

“I’d love you forever mate.” He looked down to his wrist, and winced when he saw time on his watch. “Lunch is almost done… y’know, since you’re doing so much for us, you should come up to the studio some time, have a look around?”

Ringo chuckled nervously, lighting another cigarette as Paul’s burnt to the end.

“I don’t think that’d be a wise decision, for anyone.” He remarked tightly, and Paul eyed him interestedly. 

“Why? Because of John? Or George?” He remarked casually, and Ringo hummed noncommittally. “I’m sure it would make George happy to be able to talk to you again.” Ringo knew Paul noticed his refusal to meet his eyes, and the bassist pressed harder. “He really enjoyed Monaco.” 

“Well I bloody didn’t.” Ringo said tightly, inhaling half a cigarette in one pull. “Look, Paul, I’m sure George is a great bloke, but-“ Ringo cut himself off with a frustrated sigh, kneading his forehead with the heel of his hand and tried to put his jumbled thoughts into words. 

He knew Paul was watching him closely from across the table, with his crossed arms and lips pressed tightly together. 

“But what?” Paul insisted, his once grateful tone now turning to accusation. “Why don’t you see him? What did he do?” 

“Nothing! Ok? It’s nothing to do with George- I just need time to…figure my head out.” Ringo could feel a headache brewing, and he stuck his cigarette between his lips to cradle his aching head in his hands. 

He ran his fingers along the raised scar on his forehead, trying to ground himself.

“George would’ve helped, y’know. He didn’t leave your side at all. He would’ve helped you through all this.” Paul asserted. “He wanted to.” 

God, when did thinking become so painful.

He could imagine someone by his side right now, rubbing his shoulders and asking if he was ok. Offering him some medicine for his headache and taking him home. 

Phantom hands could be felt across his body, the haze of confusion in his mind similar enough to the alcohol from the gala. 

“Ringo?! Are you even listening?” Paul demanded, and Ringo shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, sitting back with folded arms to match Paul’s position.

“Look, I appreciate what George did, but I’m not the man he wants, ok?” Ringo forced out, much to Paul’s frustration.

“What in the hell do you mean? He chose you! He sat by your side for a week!” 

“And he deserves the man that sat in that hospital bed! But that is not me, Paul. Things…change when you-“ Ringo stood up with a grinding of metal of the chair legs against the flagstone floor, and stiffly ground out his second cigarette. 

Paul didn’t move, simply staring up at him in slight shock.

“I’m sorry, but- I have to go.” He swept out of the shop in a whirlwind of energy, leaving a very confused and curious Paul behind.

//0‑0\\ 

 

“-And here are the designs from group D.” John placed the glossy photographs in front of George, letting him sift through thoughtfully. 

“These ones are better...I like that one.” He pointed out, and John nodded encouragingly. 

“Good, int’ they?” He smiled and sat back, folding his arms as George continued to sift.

“Very good…” He muttered approvingly, holding a few up to the late morning light streaming in through the studio window. 

They were alone in the small conference room, and John much preferred their quiet conversations to the negotiations they had just ended with some more investors and designers. 

They had left a few minutes ago, allowing the two men to sort through the proposed stock for their boutique.

“The way that shirt is cut on that one is great.” He continued, just as there was a knock at the door. 

“Occupied!” John called distractedly as he examined the design George mentioned, but the door opened anyway, and a loud voice filled the room.

“-and so I said ‘Eat the paper, and i’ll-’” George looked up irritatedly as the voice cut itself off, his pre-occupied brain not registering the owner of the voice.
“We said it’s taken-” He began, but then he laid his eyes on one of the three men who had just walked into the room. Ringo. 

“Oh, so sorry!” Paul was one of the other two men, and George looked between him and Ringo in utter shock.

“What the fuck-” John had noticed too, attracting the attention of Ringo and the man standing behind him. Sellers. 

George registered somewhere in his brain that Paul was unsuccessfully trying to tug the other two men out of the room, but Ringo and Sellers stood fast. 

“Oh, sorry to bother you!” Sellers started to direct Ringo out of the door, and George stood up with a start. 

“What the hell is this?” He demanded, and Paul quickly stepped in front of the pair. 

“George, it’s not what it looks like-” He said desperately, but George wasn’t having any of it.
“Really? Because you’re going to have a hard time explaining how you haven’t just brought those two , right into the studio!” He spat, and he looked over Paul’s shoulder to stare at a very bewildered Ringo. How could he look so confused?

He felt John stand up to move beside him and place a hand on his shoulder, and he saw Sellers do the same to his protege as Paul held up his hands placatingly. 

“George this isn’t Ringo, this is Youngman Grand.” He explained, pointing to...Ringo (?) behind him. 

George scoffed, staring down at the man behind Paul. What the hell was he on about? He looked just like Ringo. His hair was the same length, his moustache the same shape, even the way his hair had fallen to hide the scar-

There was no scar. 

The long red line that had been drawn across Ringo’s forehead, criss crossed with black stitches, was nowhere to be seen. Not even a healed white line. 

He faltered, his words dying in his throat. This was not Ringo. 

He heard John draw in a breath, ready to spit vitriol on his behalf, but George cut him off.

“You’re not Ringo.” He stared at the man Paul had called Youngman, and Youngman stared with wide eyes back.

“Uh, no. He’s my cousin.” He chuckled nervously. Youngman sounded the same as Ringo, maybe with a slightly more noticeable lilt. 

Paul relaxed minutely, slowly lowering his hands.

“Youngman is here to help us with our financial situation. Maybe help us sort out where we are with everything.” Paul defended, and Georg could see John’s disbelief.

“And what could he do for us? Set up a Swiss bank account?” He jeered, and this time it was Sellers who spoke.

“No, but he could help you to stop getting taxed at ninety five percent.” He suggested, and George narrowed his eyes.

“Is this about the bloody shop again? How you think we’re throwing money away?” He accused “Paul if you have a problem with the shop just say it to my sodding face.” 

Paul threw up his arms in frustration.

“I did, George! Then you went into a sulk for a week! This is me trying to fix a problem!” 

“By going behind our backs and talking to Ringo?!” George asked incredulously

“I didn’t say I talked to Ringo-”

“Then lie to me and tell me you didn’t. Tell me you just so happened to talk to Ringo’s cousin. And just so happened to be with his manager for crying out loud!?” George ranted, and for a moment he could tell Paul was lost for words, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.

“Look. He did, ok? But he just wanted to help me out. I mentioned it in passing, and he offered to put me in touch with someone who could sort us out. He’s barely involved. Sellers is only here to be Youngman’s liaison.” Paul’s tone was that of a zookeeper trying to calm a particularly disagreeable lion, but George felt himself calming down anyway, despite the hint of patronisation. 

“What does Ringo have to do with your finances?” Youngman piped up, attracting the attention of everyone in the room. “Surely I can just… have a look then scarper.” He asked tentatively, and started to step forward. 

Paul eyed George nervously, and George stood rooted to the spot as the young man slid past Paul and started to slowly shuffle through the small stack of papers George and John had brought into the conference room. 

Everyone watched him for a moment, then John took his wrist not unkindly.

“That’s not going to help you much.” He said gruffly “Here, I’ll take you to the office.” He led Youngman out of the room, the man following behind like a happy puppy. 

The room was silent as the door swung closed behind them, until Sellers cleared his throat.

“Spooky, hm? Sometimes I confuse the two.” He chuckled, but George didn’t crack a smile.

“So he put you up to this? To meddle in our finances?” He accused, and although Paul opened his mouth, Sellers got in first.

“No, no. He-” Sellers pointed to Paul “-mentioned the difficulty with the tax brackets, and Richard consulted me, who suggested his cousin.” Sellers explained patiently, and George pressed his lips together, still skeptical. 

“And what were you doing, talking to him then, Paul?” He switched targets to his bandmate.

“He’s John’s new neighbour. Martha got out one day, and ran into his garden. I offered to take him out to breakfast as an apology, as he looked...a little worse for wear.”  Paul said defensively, and Sellers huffed a laugh. George ignored him and pressed on. 

“But why are you talking to him about things like that?! It could get out to the press, we don’t know him!” George knew he was getting emotional, but at this point he couldn’t care less. 

“That’s a load of shit from you, George! Dragging half the band and staff to Monaco for some guy you don’t even know .” Paul scoffed, but calmed his reactionary anger “Look, George, I know you’re hurt about what he did, and I probably don’t even know half of the thing, but you can’t just take it out on me. You’re mad that he hasn’t talked to you, but you haven’t reached out either, and at this point, it's affecting the band.” 

George wanted to be angry, wanted to see Paul’s words as patronising and controlling and manipulative, but all Paul said was just a vocalisation of what had been swirling around in his head for the past week. 

Didn’t mean he was going to admit it, though. 

“It’s not tearing up the band, Paul. Other things are already doing that. Pete is never here-”

“And you’re wrapped up in this little boutique thing. It’s everyone’s fault at this point. Look, please, either talk to Ringo, or drop it. Because you two are exactly the same. You’ll never confront a problem unless it spits in your face. Sure, it might not be fair, but Ringo’s probably got a lot more pressing things on his mind, like trying to find a bloody job.” Paul pleaded, and George replied with stony silence. 

But Paul knew that the glint in George’s eyes could say more than any words, and right now, it was sharp. 

“He’s right, you know.” Sellers spoke up, having found a chair in the corner and propping his legs up on the table. George and Paul looked over unison. “You two are both very stubborn. You’ll sit on a problem until it goes away or someone makes you confront it. I would make him talk myself, but ah...extenuating circumstances that you know very well.” He said breezily, stealing the communal pack of matches in the center of the conference table to light a brown cigarette.

He lowered the lit match, however, when George shrugged.

“Why do you shrug?” Sellers questioned critically, and the other man sniffed.

“Well I mean, the crash was a while ago now, wasn’t it? I’m sure his injuries would be painful, but by now…” He trailed off, and Sellers’ tone was suddenly much colder.

“Oh, I see. I thought I had judged you better.” He remarked with a frown, and he removed his feet from the table, standing up and folding his arms.

George leaned back slightly at the sudden frostiness. Sellers had always been nothing but genial every time they had met, but with one sentence it was like George had just slapped him and his sainted mother in the face. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asked defensively.

“Injuries can exist beyond the physical, George.” Sellers said cryptically. “In future I'd advise you to keep your mouth shut about these things if that’s what you’re going to say.” 

“Well then what should I say? What should I do?”

Notes:

Realised that most of you might not know that Sellers isn't an OC - he's based on Sir Guy Grand from the movie Magic Christian which is also where Youngman is from.
Youngman is played by Ringo
Sir Guy Grand is played by Peter Sellers (Hence the name Sellers)

you can see both of them here: https://imgur.com/a/10kQ6mR
plus like the haircut i described before.

Chapter 9: For Auld Lang Syne

Summary:

"Is thy sweet Heart now grown so cold,
that loving Breast of thine;
That thou canst never once reflect
On old long syne."

- Robert Burns' 'Auld Lang Syne'

Notes:

4825 words

“The meeting went well.” Sellers said brightly, and Ringo hummed into the phone. 

“Really?” He replied aimlessly. “Did they agree to anything?” His voice echoed in his empty house, the only other sounds being the record spinning across the room. It was a Billy Preston album. 

“ Yes. It took some time, since I don’t think Youngman has an ounce of tact in his body and began by insulting Epstien’s financial handling.” Ringo cringed 

“Not the best way to go about it.” He murmured dryly, and he heard Sellers agree on the other end of the phone. “Did that daft lad get out without a black eye?” 

“Only just. He had a few ideas that they liked. They’re going to get Epstien and Pete Best in for a meeting then go through it all with them. Youngman said he’ll draft some proposals for them to go through.” 

Ringo grunted, only half listening. He tapped the little business card that Clapton had given him on his kitchen bench, re-reading the name and number printed carefully on the card. 

He hadn’t told his manager about his little interaction with the Ferrari boss, knowing that Sellers was a man of action, and all he wanted to do right now was think. 

But he couldn’t help but think that as he waited, the potential opportunity in his hands was slipping further and further away. 

“You were mentioned...once or twice.” Sellers’ voice snapped him back to the present, and Ringo blinked in surprise. 

“I-Oh, really?”  He said in undertone, and he began to run his fingers along the scar on his forehead, feeling the raised tissue.

“ Yes. It took John and George a bit of convincing for them to believe that you were not Youngman.” Sellers explained with a hint of mirth “ George took quite a bit of talking, and poor Youngman just wanted to get going!”

“Oh god, I really need to ring him and apologise.” Ringo despaired, momentarily forgetting the card in his hand.

“Who? George?” Sellers asked sharply

“What? No- Youngman! I need to talk to Youngman .” He insisted, more flustered than he ought to be. He could hear Sellers shuffling around and grumbling about something on the other end of the line.

“Of course. Youngman. But I did talk to George, ” Sellers said conversationally “ About you. ” He tacked on, and Ringo sighed.

“About what?” He groaned, resting his forehead against the cool kitchen countertop. “You better not’ve spun some fib about me for bloody sympathy.” He threatened, and he could practically see Sellers holding his hands up and surrendering as he replied.

“ Oh no no. Only facts. You and him are both very stubborn, you know .” 

“I’m going to choose not to take that as an insult.” 

“ Good. Because it wasn’t one.” Sellers said firmly, and Ringo scoffed as he swapped the phone handset over to his other hand. 

“Whatever you say, mate. Anyway, what did they say about me.” He asked nonchalantly, and he scowled at Sellers’ laugh.

“So conceited.” He teased

“You were the one that brought it up!” Ringo protested, sitting up defensively in his barstool 

“Fair, but don’t deny you are a bit self absorbed.”
“Only if you admit to it yourself.” He countered

“ Let’s move on.” This time it was Ringo’s turn to laugh “ George wasn’t incredibly happy that you haven’t reached out. Although I did remind him that he hadn’t reached out either.” 

Ringo hummed as he listened to Sellers, gradually sobering himself up from his earlier mirth. 

“ He said things about being dropped after all he did for you, and he sounded pretty mad.”
“Yeah, well I’m tired of finding myself up against the bloody wall, so we can’t all plead for charity.” Ringo snorted derisively

“ Of course, but that really isn’t George’s fault.” Sellers pointed out, making Ringo pause.

“Well of course it isn’t, but what I'm saying is that I've got bigger fish to fry than saving poor George Harrison’s feelings.” He said sharply, and Sellers took several moments to respond.

“Richard...he’s not asking for you to find the Holy Grail, he just wants- or rather wanted- you to talk to him.” This time it was Ringo’s turn to be silent “ I don’t think he understands what you went through, son, and right now, he thinks you’re ignoring him because you don’t care about him, which is fine by me if you do, but by the way you asked what he said about you, i’m getting the feeling that you care.” 

Ringo stayed silent, slowly turning over Clapton’s card aimlessly in his fingers.

“ You don’t owe Harrison a single quid, because he did what he did because you almost… kicked it, but i think you might get some peace of mind if you talked to him. Even just to apologise and properly cut him off, if that’s what you want.”  

Ringo wasn’t good at taking advice. Hell, he didn’t even give out good advice. He was worse at admitting to taking advice, too. But Sellers had just made a very hard to refute point, because right now, Ringo would sell his soul for any kind of peace of mind. 

“I-Ok…?” He said tersely, “I’ll...think about it.”
“That’s all I ask. Now, what did you ring me for?” Sellers switched topics so fast it took Ringo a moment to remember he was the one that had initiated the call, with the reason being held in his hands at that moment. 

“I- um...I don’t remember.” He stuttered lamely, the courage he had built up before the phone call long gone. He had planned to bring up the meeting, but now he didn’t know what to do.

“ Really?” He could tell Sellers was suspicious, but his manager was powerless over the phone. 

“Yeah, i’m a bit tired an’ everything.”

“ Not sleeping well?” Sellers questioned 

“What do you think?” Ringo replied dryly, “I never have slept well.” 

Which was proven even more correct that night.

 

He was in Monaco. 

The sun was hot on his back as he held the large camera, aiming it towards the track. 

It was race day, the tarmac so hot it melted underneath tyres. 

Ringo took photos of the shapes that zoomed past, too blurry to make out what they actually were. 

The force of the wind rushed past him when a shape roared by, knocking him into the Monaco harbour behind him, but he didn’t feel the water. 

He climbed out of the harbour, dressed in his school uniform. 

He took pictures with a huge camera, almost as tall as him, and always knew when to push the shutter. 

His feet sunk into the melted tarmac. 

Someone yelled out behind him, but he couldn’t decipher the words. He turned, feet still stuck in concrete. 

A man in brightly coloured clothes stood in the middle of the racetrack, staring directly at him. Ringo took a picture of him. 

The man pointed at him, Ringo looked down at his school uniform, holding a telescope in the hand that had held the camera. 

He looked through the telescope at his own body. It zoomed in impossibly far, past the individual threads and into his skin. His skin was black and decaying, turning from white to green to ash in a matter of moments. 

Ringo looked back up. He stood opposite of the man in the middle of the track. 

He could feel himself crumbling, his spine failing as he fell forwards, his legs still stuck in the tarmac. 

He fell like a string puppet, bent double. 

The man disappeared. 

He looked between his legs at a car approaching on the track. It was fast, yet he had time. 

What was the time? It was noon. The sun was hot.

The car got closer. He was in Monaco. 

The man appeared in front of him, in the path of the car. 

Ringo tried to yell, but white shapes tumbled from his mouth instead. His teeth. 

The car hit the man. 

 

Ringo woke up with a start, sitting bolt upright with wide eyes. 

He blindly swiped at his bedside table, and a burst of orange light flooded the room as his hand smacked his lamp.  

His room looked the same as ever, moonlight weakly shining through his open window. A small summer breeze washed over Ringo as he began to catch his breath, leaning back against his headboard and closing his eyes again. 

It was a new dream tonight. He never tried to decipher them, afraid to hear what his brain was telling him. 

He opened his eyes with a sigh and dug around in his bedside drawer for his cigarettes, lighting an old stick and sitting up properly in his bed. 

The haze of sleep and confusion in his head gradually cleared, and he swung his legs out of bed to check the time. 

04:07am.

Ringo debated trying to get to sleep again, but when he looked back to his bed he saw the dark outline of sweat soaked bed sheets. 

Some people got up at 4am right? 

Ringo flicked on more lights as he descended the stairs, gradually illuminating his whole house as he tugged on shorts and an old jumper, cigarette still clamped between his lips. 

The outside air was pleasantly warm on the summer night, and the sharp snap of the front door closing was clear and crisp in the silent night. 

If he squinted, Ringo could already see the beginnings of the sunrise at the top of the trees lining the road opposite his house. 

The grinding of the metal door against the gravel driveway seemed much louder at dawn, as well as the rumble of the Maserati engine. 

Ringo couldn’t help but stare at Lennon’s house as he drove past his estate, wondering if the songwriter was up at this hour too. 

 

He wasn’t the only one on the roads this early in the morning, and he was soon in the midst of a long train of cars seemingly going all in one direction. 

Ringo let himself be taken along, slightly amused and still more asleep than awake.

It turned out to be an excellent idea, as soon they turned onto the road leading down to the rally track Ringo had frequented many times before. 

Cars started to park up, and Ringo wedged himself between two trees before trying to figure out what all the fuss was about. 

The track site building was small, but decked out in event posters and time sheets. 

The sun was properly rising by now, and Ringo didn’t have to squint as he searched for the most recent event, although he had a small inkling of an idea due to the amount of cars pulling into the track and the general buzz of conversation in the air. 

 

REGIONAL RALLY CHAMPIONSHIP HEATS 

6AM-6PM 31ST JULY 1968

£5 entry fee

Must supply car - Driver and Co-Driver required 

APPLICATIONS CLOSING 21ST OF JULY

 

Well well well. A little rally event. 

Ringo was almost glad applications had closed, because he didn’t think he’d be able to stop himself from joining if they didn’t. Although a lack of co-driver would’ve also proved a stumbling block. 

 

The crowds at the event grew bigger as five thirty came along, and spectators were herded towards a gate that would lead to the track so that people could find the best spot to watch the upcoming races. 

Ringo thought he should probably leave. He had a meeting with Sellers at half ten, and it wouldn’t do him good to get covered in oil or mud before meeting anyone. 

But when he got back to his car, there was a very expensive, very broken Porsche sitting right in front of it. 

“What the hell, mate?!” There were at least three people working on the car, with the hood open and one of the tyres missing. 

One of the workers ducked his head out of the car in alarm.

“Oh sorry mate! I didn’t mean to block yeh like this! She just gave up on me!” The man slapped the wheel of the car to indicate who ‘She’ was, and Ringo groaned. 

“What the bloody hell happened to it?” He questioned, and the man shrugged

“What hasn’t happened? One of the front axles has cracked, the suspension’s dead, and the brakes are on life support.” He said dispassionately. 

“Why’s she down here then? You can’t race this bucket of bolts.” Ringo pressed, and another worker popped her head out from under the car.

“Because he’s in denial that it’s broken.” She proclaimed, and the man shot her a wounded look.

“She was working this morning!” He said defensively, and the woman sighed

“And then you hit one pot hole and it all fell apart.” She finished, and the man sagged on the car door. 

“I really thought she had pulled it together.” He said dejectedly, and Ringo sighed. It looked like Sellers would have to wait. Oh no, how awful. 

“Well do you need a hand trying to get it fixed? When’s your race? Or is it a time trial?” He offered, and the man perked up, leaning his chin on the top of the car door.

“It's a time trial, and we’d love your help. Do you have experience?” He asked hopefully

“On and off the track.” Ringo said vaguely “Now where’s the wheel?” 

The third man looked up from examining the engine under the hood. 

“It's under the car as a block.” He explained, and Ringo looked to see that indeed there was a wheel being used to hold up the exposed axle of the car. 

“Blimey.” 

 

Between the four of them, they managed to lift up the car long enough to get the wheel out and onto the car again, and they all pushed the poor Porsche across the car park and into an area designated as the area to work on cars before the race. 

Evidently they weren’t the only ones having trouble, as there were seven more cars jacked up with various people swarming around them. 

Ringo paused for a moment as the Porsche crew ran off to collect their tools from another car, absorbing the buzz of the pre-race energy. 

It was a good feeling, like he was back in his element once again. It was different to Formula One, less polished and perfected and more rough and tumble with lukewarm cups of tea being used as payment and collective cheers as engines finally spluttered to life, with cheers even coming from rival racers. 

Some people w0rking on their cars had more success than others. As the Porsche crew came back and Ringo started to assess the car, he noticed the people in the bay next to them were attempting to revive a long dead corpse, the corpse being a beautiful Ferrari 250. 

He did blink at the price tag of such a car, but then he did live in an affluent area. 

The Porsche wasn’t doing much better, though Ringo managed to borrow a welder from another group and repair the axle with some success and only a little life threatening situations, as the crew had to lift the car up onto the two right wheels as Ringo worked on the left side of the axle. 

It had been some time since he used a welder, but the last was also working on a car during his mechanic days before Formula One, and this time he didn’t make a huge fool of himself, so he guessed skills like that never really left. 

“So when’s your slot?” Ringo asked as he examined the drive shaft, as he didn’t put it past the amatuer crew to miss any damage. 

“Nine o’clock.” The female crew member sighed, and Ringo checked his watch. 6:51AM. 

The cars had started racing almost an hour ago, and the sounds of roaring engines filled the workshop area as the start line was almost next to the edge of the small area. 

They now had to yell to hear each other, but to Ringo it was strangely exciting. 

“Well the good news is that there’s no damage to the drive shaft, so you should be good to go-” 

“Drive belt’s cracked!” Ringo groaned as the third Porsche crew member called out, and he and the other crew member crawled out from under the car to meet the man by the engine. 

Ringo stuck his head down and sure enough, there was a long, thin crack on the rubber of the drive belt. 

“Oh beautiful, just wonderful.” He said sarcastically. “Could you go start ‘er up for me, lad? I want to see how bad it is.” The third man nodded and jumped in the driver's seat as the first man, who Ringo had learned held the name of Graham. 

“Drive shaft’s gone, has it?” He questioned, and Ringo nodded distractedly as he waited for the car to start.

“Yeah. He’s just seeing how she starts up with it.” The woman answered for him, but she was cut off by the car sputtering to life after several false starts. 

“That didn’t sound very healthy.” Graham commented, and Ringo gave a noise of agreement. 

“Yep. Turn it off, will yeh?” He called, and as soon as the engine died he was waist deep in the engine. “More good news for you guys! The crankshaft is damaged too!” 

 

An hour later, the area around the Porsche was scattered with engine pieces, and the Graham was so far into what remained of the engine, he was bent double with one leg in the air. 

“Any luck?” The woman called, and the man’s voice echoed out of the car.

“Nope. The alignment is all off. It's a miracle we got it down here, honestly!” 

The third man gave what could only be described as a whimper as he stared at the car, sat on his haunches. Ringo gave him a sympathetic clap on the back, knowing how he felt.

“Don’t worry too hard, lad. We’ll figure something out.” He said with uncharacteristic optimism, but the man wasn’t having any of it.

“You can’t figure that out.” He moaned. “It sounds like we need a whole bloody replacement.” 

“Well… then we’ll find a replacement.” Ringo tried to keep up the optimism, but then other crew members chimed in.

“Where are you going to find a crankshaft then, genius? And fit it in half an hour?” The woman asked.

“I don’t even know what a crankshaft is!” Graham piped up. 

Ringo sighed in frustration. He had to be patient, he had to be.

He looked around desperately, hoping to just see a crankshaft of the Porsche’s identical specifications just hanging from a tree like some demented fruit. 

“Oi.” A low voice grunted behind them, and they turned to see an old man, bent over with age, staring at them intensely.

Ringo stepped back slightly, wondering if he was about to get his head bitten off for some hidden transgression.

“Uh, hello?” The woman said awkwardly, the man’s gaze flickered to her then back to Ringo.

“You lot looking for parts?” He grunted, and the Porsche crew plus Ringo all shared a surprised glance.

“Uh, yeah definitely! Do you have parts?” Graham asked eagerly, and again, the old man’s gaze flicked from Ringo to Graham to Ringo.

“What do you need?” He ignored the second part of Graham’s question, but Ringo didn’t press it.

“Crankshaft. Whole or parts will do. Drive belt too.” He said, and the old man nodded.

“Come over ‘ere.” It wasn’t a request. 

To Ringo’s surprise, the man walked over to the Ferrari in the bay adjacent to them, where the people who had been working on it before were now scattered around and somberly drinking cups of tea.

“Is it-” Graham started to speak, but he was cut off.

“Broken.” The old man said. “Oi, these lads want the crankshaft.” The man called out to the workers, who looked up curiously. They, too, stared at Ringo. The old man turned back to the pair. “My boys will help you get the crankshaft.” He addressed Graham, then turned to Ringo. “You, come with me.” 

Graham and Ringo shared a look, but they were hardly in a position to complain or make demands, so Ringo followed the old man to the back of the track site building, where they stood between the wall of the building and the chain link fence that bordered the rally track. 

No one else stood nearby, so Ringo was slightly apprehensive when the old man turned around to stare at him again. 

“You’re Ringo Starr, ain’t you.” He proclaimed quietly, and Ringo sucked in a breath. 

In any other situation this side of the crash he would’ve denied it and left, not wanting to bother with the fuss, but the way the old man was handling the situation made him pause. 

“You don’t have to confirm it, I know you is.” The man continued. “I just wanted to say that what they did to you, how they treated you like a dog, was horrible, alright. After all you did for ‘em, after all you been through, for them to kick you off like that was bloody awful. I live up in Sheffield and the whole town had a kick off when it hit the news.” He explained softly, and Ringo was taken aback. 

“Well, I- uh, thanks for your support. It’s a shame the team didn’t feel that way, but it's out of our control.” He said sincerely, and the old man nodded. 

“Good. Sorry for disturbing you like this. I know you must get it all the time.” 

Ringo shrugged.

“No problem. It means a lot, anyway.” 

The man nodded thoughtfully, looking at Ringo as if he was weighing up his character.

“I wanted to make sure, as well, that this isn’t it for you.” He said firmly, and Ringo cocked his head. 

“How do you mean?” 

“That you’re not going to stop fighting, stop racing.” He insisted, and Ringo ducked his head.

“I really don’t know anymore. I don’t have that many opportunities-” The man held up a hand.

“Well i’m giving you one now. Take our spot on the starting line. Our car is done for, you hear me? It’s finished. It was ten to one that we’d get it ready in time today, so you’re getting our ticket.” The old man seized Ringo’s hand and pressed a piece of paper into his palm. 

“I-”

“Your slot starts at a quarter past ten. Good luck.” 

The man shuffled away, leaving Ringo with his jaw hanging open and a starting ticket clutched in his hand. 

“What’dya-!?” Ringo exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air, but the man was gone. 

He let his arms fall back down with a heavy sigh as the loud buzz of a rally car grew louder until it flew along the track beside him. 

Ringo watched it travel, the blur of the car as the driver pushed it to the limits, squeezing every mile of speed out, every bit of horsepower. 

The ticket in his hand flickered and blazed with the force of the wind from the car, and it would be so easy to let it slip from his grasp, to let it be whisked away in the gale. But that would be throwing away the very chance Ringo had been hoped would be thrust upon him.

He wondered if Ferrari would be watching him here, too. 

 

Ringo walked slowly back to the Porsche crew, where he was met with bright smiles.

“Good news! The crankshaft parts line up, and the drive belt is the same model, so it's a perfect match!” Graham rushed to meet him, and as he talked he gestured back to the Porsche engine, which was rapidly being reassembled. 

“So it’s finished? It works?” Ringo questioned, and Graham shrugged, not losing any of his enthusiasm. 

“Well we can’t test it yet, but there’s no reason why it shouldn’t work! Thank you so much for your help.” He said eagerly, clasping the racer’s hand in his own and shaking it vigorously. Ringo gave him a half smile, using his other hand to pat Graham’s.

“No worries. Glad to help.” He said, and Graham looked down at their hands all stacked on top of each other. The ticket poked out from under Ringo’s hand, fluttering gently in the breeze. 

“What’s that, eh? Did that old boy give it to you?” He asked curiously, and Ringo looked down too, seeing Graham staring at the paper. He hesitated a moment, debating on how much information to share. 

“Uh, yes. It’s a slot ticket.” He detangled their hands and held up the ticket, letting Graham squint to read it. “He said it was their slot, but their car is more useful as a paperweight than a time setter right now.” 

Graham gave an appreciative whistle, nodding along. 

“Lucky boy, you are. The right car class, too, if that Maserati I saw was yours.” 

Ringo nodded, lowering the ticket and tucking it into the pocket of his shorts. 

“Yeah. Minstral ‘67. The slot is in a bit.” Ringo explained, and Graham nodded.

“Do you have a co-driver? It’s a requirement, you know.” Now that made Ringo pause. 

“Oh bugger.” Was all he managed, staring down at his ticket, and Graham chuckled.

“Well you can get any old sod to do it. But I'd start looking at the track map now, to get an idea of the route.” He advised, and Ringo gave a grunt, still staring down the ticket.

Who could he call?

Graham watched him amusedly.

“Well I'll leave you to it. Maybe we can compare times afterward.” He said cheerfully, and retreated back to his Porsche.

Ringo looked up to bid him good luck, but he was gone. 

Bugger. 

 

“Ey, mornin’ Paul.” Ringo huddled in the corner of the main track building, hogging one of their only telephones. 

“Mornin’ Rings. What brings you to my number at this hour?” Thankfully, Paul seemed to be wide awake, taking a small weight off Ringo’s chest. 

“You ever had any experience with rally, Paul?” Ringo asked awkwardly, and there was a pause along with vague shuffling. Ringo guessed it was Paul standing up in confusion, which he understood was warranted. 

“Can’t say I have, no. Why’d you ask?” Ringo cringed at the wariness in Paul’s tone, huddling further in the corner. 

“Well I happen to find myself starting a rally race in about..half an hour, and I am in need of a co-driver.” More shuffling on the end of the line.

“I- uh, what?!”  

“I would’ve given more warning if I had it, but I just found out myself, and it took me ages to convince the staff here to let me use their phone.” 

“Wait, what do you mean you just found out? Can you just sign up for these things or something?” 

“Oh no, but I got given the ticket by a fan.”

“They just gave you the ticket?”  

“They said they wanted to see me...keep racing.” Ringo was never the best at sharing anything about himself, and with a crowded track building and a questioning Paul, it made it even harder. 

“And you want me to go in the rally car with you?”
“It's required to have a co-driver.”

“ Mate...I don’t think I've gone faster than a hundred on the M1.” Paul protested weakly, and Ringo shrugged.
“Well good job it's me driving then, in’t it?” He said desperately, looking around the track building for someone to come along and save him. 

“Mate, I don’t know…”

“Well how about you come down anyway, have a look, and if you’re still funny about it you don’t have to. How about that?” 

“...Alright, fine. But I'm with George right now, so you’re either going to have to wait half an hour or he’s coming with me.” Paul said firmly, and Ringo dropped the receiver. 

He dove under his chair to pick it up, mind reeling.

“I-uh is that necessary?!” He said tightly, and he heard Paul snort on the other end of the line. 

“ You want me to ditch him at the empty studio for you? That’ll go down well with him. He’ll just sit in the car don’t worry.” Paul laughed, and Ringo swore in despair.
“I-” 

“Alright mate, you’ve had your time. Now get off the line.” The manager that Ringo had argued with for use of the phone came stomping over, cutting him off, and Ringo swore again.

“ Wait- are you ok-?”

“FINE! Bring George, just be here, ok! Soon!” He slammed down the receiver and allowed himself to be corralled back behind the counter.

“Are you racing or what?” The manager demanded, and Ringo bit his lip nervously, looking back out the door to his Maserati where it sat between the trees. 

“Yeah. Yeah I am. Here’s my ticket.” 

“Great. You start in twenty minutes.” 

Chapter 10: Moment Of Synapse

Summary:

4230 words
"Dr. Freeman, you really shouldn't be out there. At the moment of synapse as I teleport, this chamber will be bathed in deadly particles that have yet to be named by human science."
- Dr Breen - Half Life 2

Notes:

4230 words
You may have noticed but chapter updates are going to be a little unsteady until December - GL to my fellow ATAR kids, we're almost done.

Some pretty gross imagery in this one so beware

The sun was fully up now, and Ringo could feel its heat. He sheltered in his car with the door propped open with one foot, hoping he wasn’t flashing anyone with his short shorts.

He sat in a queue for the starting line, every now and then turning on his engine to creep forwards as the first car in the queue was called up to start their run. 

For now he idled, hiding in the shade and watching the entrance of the rally area for any sign of Paul. He had the track notes on his lap, now forgotten. 

He had memorised the map within a few minutes, then had attempted to remember the specifics of turns and straights with varied success.

He also casually studied his competition, observing the cars that sat on the starting line before they raced off to set a time. 

A Lotus Elan, an old Aston Martin, an Alpine A110, and even a Porsche. 

Fast cars, but hopefully cocky drivers. Because cocky drivers made mistakes. 

As the Porsche took its turn and the Alpine started to roll in and take its place, Ringo grew agitated. He sat up slightly in his seat, refusing to take his eyes off the open gates. 

Cars continued to roll through the gates, Fords, some Vauxhalls, a Morris Minor even. 

Most were plain and unadorned, some with stickers from previous rallies, some with numbers painted on the side. 

There were a few in Ringo’s class; he had observed the tail end of another Lotus painted with the number 44 before it zoomed off. 

It meant nothing and it meant everything for competition. 

The commitment to deface a car with a lucky number or number of wins could mean that the driver was a veteran in the sport, with a dedicated, souped-up car for racing.

But it could also mean that a rookie with two starts under their belt was trying to look tough for the competition. 

“Where’s your co-driver?” A tall, thin man ducked down to look through the window of Ringo’s open door, frowning disapprovingly. 

Ringo jumped slightly, tearing his eyes away from the gate. 

“I-uh they-” 

“It’s required, you know. If you don't have one you can’t race.”

“I’m well aware, thank you.” Ringo said irritably, and he took his foot out of the hinge of the door, letting it swing shut with a snap. 

“Well then where is he?” The thin man pressed, and Ringo looked back to the gates, a huge weight rising from his chest when he saw a familiar car roll through the gates.

“There! There he is!” Ringo pointed, and the man frowned disapprovingly

“You’ve left it a bit late, haven’t you?” He reprimanded, and Ringo threw open his car door, making the man step back. 

“What’s it to you?” He snapped, and he heard the man splutter indignantly as he jogged away to where he saw Paul park in a secluded area by the treeline. 

He watched as Paul climbed out, a hat pulled low across his face. 

Ringo raced up to him and greeted him with a tight smile before grabbing his wrist and starting to tug him back towards his car. 

“You’re a legend for coming, Paul, thanks so much. We’re up in like a minute!” Ringo rambled, and Paul squeaked.

“Oh, uh, no problem.” Paul chuckled nervously, and Ringo paused as they reached the bumper of the Maserati, looking back just in time to see Paul’s eyes follow the Alpine A110 as it roared away from the starting line in front of them. 

The bassist’s pupils were bigger than bottle caps as the Alpine streaked away down the part of the course they could see. 

“Paul?” Ringo said hesitantly as the man’s eyes froze on where the car had disappeared around the corner, tugging gently on his wrist. 

“Are we going to be going that fast?” Paul said quietly, and Ringo looked back to the track and then front again. 

“I mean- it’s a race, Paul.” He said uncomfortably, the hope that had blazed in his chest slowly spluttering down. 

“Yeah but- I thought it would be on like...a road or something? I don’t know.” 

“Rally is on dirt track. That’s what makes it rally.” Ringo gently explained, and Paul huffed defensively 

“Yeah, well I didn’t know that. You didn’t mention it before.” He snapped

“I thought you knew…” Ringo trailed off as the Aston Martin roared away, causing Paul to take a step back as the engine screamed. 

“Ringo, mate, I’m sorry but-” 

“You’re not going to do it?” 

“You said that when we got down here, we could make a decision and here I am, making a decision.” 

“ Yes , I know that- it’s just- now I can’t fucking race .” Ringo hissed, running a desperate hand through his hair. 

“I thought you were going to take a break?”

“Yeah well I changed my mind, didn’t I, ok? But that doesn’t matter now does it? Since I don’t have a co-driver-” Ringo ranted, and turned away, clutching the boot of the Maserati.

“I could ask George-”

“Ask George what?” Both Ringo and Paul turned to see George with a hat also pulled down low over his face and looking quietly curious. 

Ringo froze, hands tightening on the metal of his car. 

George was supposed to stay in his fucking car. When did ANYTHING go his own way. Someone always fucks it up.

“Ringo needs a co-driver.” Paul explained as Ringo’s jaw clenched, and George’s gaze turned to him, filled with a subdued emotion that Ringo was too worked up to decipher. 

“I could do that.” George said after a moment, and Ringo blinked, certain his brain was short circuiting. 

In the background, the Lotus Elan’s engine hummed as it got ready to go, waiting for the signal to start its run. 

“There we go! Problem solved, and now you can race!” Paul turned to Ringo, who remained silent. “Ringo? Is that ok with you?” He said with a smile, and Ringo’s jaw clenched so hard he thought he might crack a tooth. 

“What’s wrong?” George said after a beat. “I thought I was part of the team?” He said with a hesitant smile. 

A younger Ringo echoed the same words, the weight of his racing suit on his shoulders and the sound of the rain on the race track dulling his words.

They both smiled at each other. Ringo felt warm, his vision was warm and foggy.

The Lotus Elan shrieked as it tore away from the starting line, and Ringo was back at the track, Paul and George standing either side of him.  

“Ringo?” George seemed concerned, if only curiously, and Ringo realised that he had slumped back against the Maserati. 

Both men were looking at him, their eyes piercing his chest like a thousand individual needles. 

“No.” He exhaled, so quiet it was almost like it was carried by his breath, and Paul and George both furrowed their brows simultaneously. 

“What? I don’t-”
“I said no .” Ringo pushed himself off the car and used it as a grounding point as he retreated back to the driver’s side door, not taking his eyes off the pair. 

“Sir, I-” Ringo walked back into the chest of the tall thin man with a grunt, but he didn’t stop on his path to the door, still staring at Paul and George’s now very confused and concerned faces. 

The tall thin man looked at him in frustration as he stepped out of the way.

“ Sir , where is your co-driver?” He insisted, and Ringo saw George open his mouth but he was too slow. 

“I’m not racing. I-I’m going home.” He said quickly. “Sorry about all the fuss, I just-” His hands searched out behind him as he walked back into his car, and the feeling of the cool metal handle in his hands was better than any high he had ever had. 

“I’ve got to go.” He finished, glancing between the man, Paul, and George before diving into his car and kicking the idling engine into gear and pulling away from the queue and making for the exit. 

He weaved between cars trying to leave and cars trying to park, causing obscene gestures to be thrown out of windows and horns to ring out. 

He made it to the exit road unscathed, however, and he was sure the sound of his engine could be heard in Scotland as he hit the open road. 

 

In the coming years, he would wonder how he got home that day. He could guess, based on the state of the tyres and the complaints of his neighbour, that it was the product of muscle memory and a strong unconscious urge to not die . 

But he could only guess,since the intensity of the alcohol consumption that he engaged with the moment he got back home was of such strength that the thieving hand that muddled his memories that night encroached upon the memories of the day. 

But for Ringo, this was the effect he was chasing, to escape that the memories that consumed him. 

To be drinking so heavily at half past ten in the morning set the expectations for the rest of the day, and by noon Ringo was sprawled on his kitchen floor with a bottle of gin in one hand and a bottle of red wine to use as a chaser. 

It was so weak to be crippled by thoughts, and yet here he was, staring at the floor as it spun and sloshed around, turning the cruel blue of the waters in the harbour. 

His chest felt wet, a mix of spilt alcohol, sea water, and his own blood. 

The sun moved slowly over the floor, a bright shard of light that just skimmed Ringo’s outstretched leg as his unfocused eyes tracked its path, achingly slow. 

Time was relative. The only constant was the lowering level of liquid in his bottles. 

Was this the end of his day? The end of his life? Was that a bad thing? 

The gin bottle slipped out of numb fingers, only a drop left to coat the glass as it rolled out of reach, and a cold hand coated in neoprene took its place, grasping him painfully. 

Ringo balked, sitting up and clutching his hand to his chest. He blinked quickly, shuffling back to sit against his cabinet doors, still in possession of his wine. 

He took a pull of his drink, then coughed up a mouthful, the liquid invading his throat and blocking his air. It coated his mouth like tar, dripping with bitterness and spilling from his lips with a hotness that paralysed him. 

He could only sit and stare at the floor as the tar cemented in his mouth, and his eyes closed to escape the roiling of the floor as it sloshed over his feet. His kitchen lights were too bright, turning white as it glared through his eyelids, and his clothes grew heavy, like a cocoon that held him down. 

His hair was wet, and there was a warmth in his chest and forehead, like someone had pressed warm hands to his body. A dull thrum coursed through his body as something pressed against his stomach, then an indescribable pain as something went into his stomach. 

He went to scream, but he could barely even breathe. 

A door slammed. 

“Richard?!” Sellers called out, uncharacteristic concern in his voice, and then there were footsteps, but Ringo could still not move. 

The feeling of something, within him. 

A hand grabbed his shoulder, like a white hot iron against his skin. 

“Ri-” Sellers began, but the burning would not stop, and like a flick of a switch, Ringo could move. 

“Get the fuck of me!” He burst out, jerking away as he opened his eyes. 

He fell against the adjacent cabinet, striking his head and making his vision white out for a moment.

When it came back, he saw Sellers, half dressed in a suit without the jacket or tie, crouched down with an alarmed look upon his face. But all Ringo could feel was something within him. 

“Richard, are you ok-?” 

“Get the fuck away from me.” Ringo slurred, trying and failing to sit up and settling for crawling like a zombie across his tiled floor, still sloshing and roiling like the harbour. 

“What have you done?” Sellers asked worriedly, not moving. 

“None of your bloody business.” Ringo spat, finally getting his feet under him and staggering out of the kitchen, still clutching his wine bottle.

He could still feel the wetness of the harbour lapping at his toes as he shuffled away.

“What are you doing? You’re not going anywhere like that.” Sellers rose and slowly followed Ringo to the door. “Richard, no-”

“Fuck off.” Ringo gave an unsteady swipe at Sellers as he reached his front door, grasping the door handle for dear life. “You’re not my fucking dad.” He hissed. The door handle turned and the door cracked open.

Sellers easily side-stepped the bottle.

“Yes but I am your colleague and your friend, now please put down the bottle and come sit down-” 

“You’re fired, now f-fuck off.” Ringo slurred, and even in his drunken state, he didn’t believe what he was saying. 

“For both our sake, I'll blame that one on the alcohol.” Sellers said dryly, and casually caught the bottle when Ringo swung it again. “Now come back and sit down. ” He insisted, still holding the bottle. 

Ringo swayed slightly as he stood, also holding the bottle. 

He stared through Sellers, weakly tugging at the bottle. 

“I can feel it.” He blurted out. “In my chest.” He let go of the door handle to grasp at his shirt, and Sellers’ gaze flicked down briefly.

“The drive shaft?” He questioned, and Ringo nodded, every ounce of anger and fire draining from him. 

“It-it hurts. Still.” He continued, and his voice was filled with his hidden fear. “I keep seeing it. He-he mentioned it, and it was all I could see.” 

“Can you see anything now?” Sellers pressed, and Ringo instinctively looked down at the floor which still washed against his toes and was coloured the murky blue of the harbour. “The floor? What does it look like?” Sellers watched his gaze, and for several moments, Ringo’s words were still stuck in the black tar in his mouth.

“-Water.” He burst out. “It’s touching my feet.” He looked down again, and the feeling was so visceral, it grew beyond his feet, like he was sinking into the floor.

He balked, letting go of the bottle and backpedalling until his back hit the front door.  

“What-?”

“Its fucking touching me.” Ringo spat, and the feeling continued to rise. 

He wrenched open the front door, ignoring Sellers’ shout, and stumbled back out of his house. 

He immediately lost his footing as he reached his small front step, falling back onto his gravel driveway with a grunt and another blow to the head. 

His vision blinked out again, but he heard the shocked gasp from behind him as clear as day. 

“Fuck.” He rolled over onto his side, breath kicked out of him. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sellers rush out of the door as well, then crouch down beside him.

“Shit is he alright?” George’s voice. What was George doing here?

“I don’t know- Richard, look at me.” Sellers slid a hand under his head so he wasn’t using gravel as a pillow, and Ringo looked up at his manager unsteadily, and Sellers sighed in relief. “What a fall, hm?” 

Ringo looked back down and nodded slightly, not attempting to move. 

He could feel warm spots of blood drip down from the back of his head from the sharp gravel, running small rivulets through the stones. It trickled past Sellers’ hand, but he ignored the sticky flow.

His head started to ache, and the rest of his body wasn’t doing too great either.

Footsteps crunched on gravel, and then a pair of white boots came into view, standing beside Sellers and then crouching down. 

And then Ringo was looking at George. 

So it was him. In the flesh and in his blood. 

George didn’t say anything, seemingly lost for words, and Ringo’s certainty of his presence faded, so with great difficulty he reached out a wavering hand to touch George’s collar and feel the soft cotton around his neck.

George didn’t move, his eyes following his fingers bemusedly. 

Then George moved his own hand, gently taking Ringo’s wrist and putting it back on the man’s chest.

“I’m sorry for whatever I said to cause... this.” He said quietly, and Ringo shook his head with difficulty. 

“Is...not your fault.” He mumbled “But if you’re really sorry… you won’t mind if I hurl on you.” 

And that was all the warning George and Sellers received before the contents of Ringo’s stomach was emptied out onto his driveway. 

Sellers managed to hop out of the way, still holding Ringo’s head, and George was left to do an undignified scramble back to avoid the wave of bile. 

“Fucking hell, lad!” George swore, and Ringo gave a half chuckle-half groan as he tried to roll away from the puddle as well.

“S-Sorry.” He grunted, and Sellers sighed.

“Well it will help, anyhow. George, could I possibly trouble you to take Richard’s legs.” The manager asked, and hooked his arms under Ringo’s elbows and began to lift him up.

After a brief moment of confusion, George caught on and lifted Ringo’s ankles, and the racer grunted in surprise as he was carried like a wounded soldier back into his house.

Sellers directed George to the stairs, and soon RIngo was deposited carefully into his bathtub. 

“Thank you...gentlemen.” He mumbled, deciding to use the porcelain tub as a bed and beginning to snore. 

“Absolutely not. Get your shirt off. George, if you could get his shoes?” Sellers ordered, and Ringo grumbled discontentedly as he realised what was coming, but obediently tugged off his jumper and shirt as he felt George tug off his shoes and socks. 

“Are we really doing this-” The blast from the shower head hit Ringo square in his open mouth, sending him sputtering and coughing as Sellers covered him in water. 

“Yes we are doing this. You stink.” Sellers said dryly, and George could only watch as Ringo scoffed between coughing up lungfuls of water. At least he had been able to keep his shorts on. 

“Is this… payback for firing you…?” He asked distractedly, and Sellers nodded cheerfully. George, however, noticed the small trickle of blood streaking down the side of the tub, and pointed it out to Sellers. 

“Ah, I see.” The blast of water ceased, and Sellers strode forwards, grabbing a towel from the rack and bearing down on Ringo, who looked like a drowned cat and eyed him suspiciously. “Turn around, will you. I need to look at your head.” 

He threw the towel around Ringo’s shoulders as the man grudgingly turned around.

George retrieved the first aid kit from under the sink just as the trill of a phone echoed up the stairs. 

Sellers looked back and sighed, then glanced up at George.

“I could do it?” George suggested, and Sellers sighed gratefully, clapping both men on the shoulder.

“Thank you, lad. Richard will murder me if it was important.” He disappeared down the stairs to answer Ringo’s landline, and then George was alone with Ringo in a deafeningly silent bathroom. 

What was he doing here? One minute he was being berated by Paul into not making the slightest bit of effort and now he was here, carrying Ringo up the stairs and putting his head back together after god knows what he had done. Vague snippets had made their way out of the open door before Ringo had run out, but he hadn’t even had the slightest moment to process them.

Then, the man in the bathtub let out an undignified snort. 

George froze for a second, feet rooted to the floor, until he realised Ringo’s head was dipping and the man was nodding off. 

He stepped forwards and knelt by the side of the bath, gently touching the back of Ringo’s head and moving wet strands of hair out of the way. Ringo grunted in surprise.

“Hm? P-...Who?” He mumbled, raising his head jerkily.

“It’s George. I’m just looking at your head, lad. You’ve cut it all up.” George explained, and he watched as Ringo raised an unsteady hand to paw at the back of his head. 

“Oh... When did you get here?” Ringo’s words were delayed slightly, and George hoped that was just from the alcohol. He began to wipe around the cut gingerly with a ball of toilet paper. 

“When you left, we went back to the studio, and John called us and said you’d taken out his postbox on your way down the driveway, and when he knocked on the door you weren’t answering. So he called us and we drove down to see what the hell was going on, and Paul had a snoop through your kitchen window and saw you on your kitchen floor, see?” George explained, and took Ringo’s acknowledging grunt as a sign to continue. 

“And then so he and John go run up to John’s house to get a hold of Sellers. Apparently they didn’t have his number so they had to call up Youngman and get the number from him, and then Sellers weren’t home-”

“He was in...meeting.” Ringo interrupted, and George nodded as he finished cleaning and started to tape up the cut.

“-Yeah, so they had to get his secretary and get her to put them through to the place where he was.” George finished and sat back and admired his handiwork. “Alright, you’re all patched up.” He said.

“Thanks, lad.” Ringo mumbled, and started to clamber like Bambi on ice to his feet. 

He slipped and slid on the wet porcelain, and George had to grab his arm and help him out so that he wasn’t scraping brains off the floor next. 

“Whoa there, don’t kill yourself now.” He chuckled, earning him a dry look from Ringo.

“Your concern is… touching, nurse.” He retorted, and started to make his unsteady way out of the bathroom and down the hall with a nervous George hovering behind him, dodging the trail of water left by Ringo’s soaked shorts.

The bedroom was still scattered with sheets from his previous restless night, and he weaved through the mess to collapse on his mattress with a groan that made George flush. 

“Alright there? You want me to get a bucket or anything?” George offered, and Ringo waved a hand.
“Nah...you’ve...done enough today. Sorry you got...involved.” Ringo punctuated his words with deep sighs, burrowing into his sheets and muffling his voice. 

“I don’t care.” George said instantly, then hesitated at his next few words. “I just don’t like being ignored.” He continued, and there was silence from the bed. “If you didn’t want me around, I feel like I at least deserve the dignity of a bloody notice.” 

George was beginning to wonder if Ringo was asleep when a reply finally came.
“I know. You do...But I can’t explain...why I didn’t.” He said cryptically, and George grew frustrated. All he was getting was half answers and mumbles.

“What do you mean?” He demanded, voice echoing in the silent room, and Ringo didn’t move. 

“George- my blood alcohol is about one percent right now...and I-”

“Just give me an answer and I’ll let you be. I deserve at least this.” George demanded, and the room was quiet for a good while, but George didn’t move. He had rushed across half of London to make sure Ringo didn’t die on his own kitchen floor, and now he was here, hanging onto nothing. 

“I don’t know what you deserve, George. I don’t even know who you are.” Ringo’s words were alien to George. What the hell did he mean? Who the hell was he to talk to him like that after all he did for him? After all they’ve been through?

“I’m not the man that you sat with in that hospital, George. I don’t know who it was, or where I was, but it wasn’t me.” Ringo interrupted George’s train of thought like a train into a brick wall. 

His thoughts scattered around like pieces of the wall, he was left floundering in the wake of Ringo’s bombshell. What the hell was he trying to peddle? The last bit of hope he had held that Ringo was finally going to acknowledge him, finally going to say something about their time together, drained away.

“I- What the hell d’you mean? ‘Oh sorry I could nae give you basic human decency, it weren’t me?’” He mocked angrily, and started to retreat from the room. “Next time you decide to make up a bullshit excuse, Ritchie, make sure it’s the least bit believable.” He spat, and slammed the bedroom door. 

George stormed down the stairs, ignoring Sellers who was still on the phone and crossing over to the front door. He wrenched it open like the door had personally spat in his face and disappeared down the driveway, the door slamming behind him.

Notes:

Probably should've put this in previous chapter but most rally events are time trials - meaning people race one at a time and the quickest run wins.
If ur like bro why are there Lotus' and Aston Martins in rally, remember that the house is in like outskirts of London an shit, and in rally you get put into classes of cars. Ringo is in a Maserati so he's in a higher class ∴ Lotus Elan.

Always looking for feedback so lmk ;)

Chapter 11: Whom Gods Destroy

Summary:

4549 words

"Those whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad"
- Reverend William Anderson Scott

Notes:

y'know i dont apologise for much but i did write this chapter in the midst of some stuff so if i've put Cynthia's name as 'Cunthia' anywhere that's on me

The early morning silence permeated through the house like a thick blanket as the rising sun warmed the bricks and windows. 

The house was remarkably clean, no trace of the previous day’s carnage. 

The only evidence was the stumbling, bleary eyed man almost falling down the stairs with the biggest headache known to man. 

Shaking hands grasped the handrail for dear life, and Ringo used the white t-shirt he had found on the floor as a shield from the sun as he shuffled into the kitchen. 

A small cup of medicines and a separate cup of water was set out on the bench, and Ringo counted it as an achievement that he only spilled half the cup down his front.

He chugged the remaining water, stomach turning at the prospect of anything solid, when a knock came at the door. 

“Ringo?!” Was it John? Ringo lowered the glass and looked to the door as another knock came. His brain felt like it was dunked underwater, and it took a third knock to spur him into action. 

He dragged himself to the door, uncaring that he was still only dressed in shorts and a t-shirt now draped over his head to block out more sun. 

When he pulled open the door, it really was John standing on his doorstep, and when their gazes met, Ringo watched John’s face morph from surprise to relief, then to forced indifference. 

“Oh. So you are alive.” John greeted brazenly, and Ringo grunted, not in the mood for some famed John Lennon antics. 

“So it would seem.” He replied monotonously, and John nodded self satisfactorily. 

“Right. There’s that sorted then.” He said firmly, shifting awkwardly in his sandals, and Ringo did nothing to break the atmosphere.

“Why are you here?” He asked tiredly. What was it with Beatles turning up on his doorstep when he was hungover?

“Your boss, Soldier, or whatever-”

“Sellers.” 

“-Sellers asked me to see if you’re still functioning after yesterday and if George had killed you or not.” John explained, and Ringo frowned.

“Why would George kill me?” He questioned, making John shrug.

“Well you pissed him off, din’t you?” 

“You think I remember anything about yesterday?” Ringo challenged with a sigh, hiding his intense curiosity. He was being truthful of course. He would be a medical miracle if he did remember anything. 

“Y’know that’s very fair...right, come with me.” John turned heel and started to walk back down the small gravel road that connected their two houses, leaving Ringo standing awkwardly on the doorstep. 

“What? Why?” He called as John continued to walk, and the man didn’t turn around to answer. 

“Because i’ve got to call your nanny!” John threw over his shoulder, and Ringo blinked in confusion.

“My nan…? I don’t- SELLERS IS NOT MY NANNY!” He insisted to John’s retreating back, and had to jog awkwardly after him as the musician refused to turn back. 

To an outsider it must’ve been a strange sight, seeing a half dressed man stumbling after another man walking up a hill. 

“C’mon you jammy git. I’m surprised you’re still breathing.” John called, and Ringo huffed as he staggered after him.

“Slow down, you bastard. What are you even doing?” Ringo panted, and John looked back at him like he had just stripped naked. 

“Calling your boss, like I said. Are you even listening?” He said skeptically, and Ringo stopped. 

“You could’ve bloody rang him from my phone!” He protested, throwing his arms out wide, and John shrugged. 

“Yeah, but I got the number written down over there, don’t I?” He pointed to his own front door, and Ringo stood squinting at him, swaying slightly. 

“You think I don’t know his number myself?!” Ringo screeched, and John scoffed. 

“I ain’t stepping a toe in your place, Starr. If I wanted to glass myself I’d head back to Liverpool.” John said dryly. 

“Like your place is any better!” Ringo said defensively, and John fixed him with a smirk.

“So you don’t even deny it? How many bottles did you smash last night?” He questioned intently, and Ringo leaned back slightly at the comment.

“I dunno.” He said shortly, and John huffed a laugh. 

“If there isn’t a smashed bottle in there then i’ll french kiss you. C’mon.” He turned and continued up towards his house, but Ringo still didn’t move, put off by John’s venomous comments.

“But why do I have to go?” He protested

“So you don’t...choke on your own spit or something.” John said dismissively, turning and starting to walk backwards. “Look, your boss wants me to make sure you’re not dead and for me to ring him when I know that. And right now…” John trailed off with a raised eyebrow, and Ringo crossed his arms irritatedly. 

“You don’t gotta be a cunt about it.” He challenged, and John stopped.

“You didn’t have to be a cunt to George again did you? But here we are.” He shot back.

“Look, mate. I don’t even know what I said!” Ringo whined frustratedly, and John crossed his own arms.

“George asked you why you ignored him. That ring any bells?” He said condescendingly, and Ringo squinted up confusion as John stared down at him. 

“Ignored him? I don’t...Did he say anything else?” Ringo questioned genuinely, and laced his hands together on top of his head with a sigh. John shrugged, this time a little less irritatedly.

“He said that you dodged the question and were a twat. So nothing unusual.” He said dismissively, and Ringo huffed, momentarily forgetting about George.

“Jesus christ what is your bloody problem. Acting like some white knight for George when he and everyone else I know has given me enough grief about it.” He ranted, and John snorted derisively.

“Good. You fucking deserve it.” He smirked and turned away. “George gave you a chance and you shat on it, you bastard.” 

“That’s his fucking problem for giving it to me when i’ve smashed half my liquor cabinet.” Ringo threw back at John’s retreating back. “And besides, you try forming a single fucking thought when your brain’s been put in a blender.” 

“Always the excuses, isn’t it?!” John yelled scornfully, and if Ringo wasn’t struggling to stand upright John would need a hospital. 

“Fuck off you stuck up wanker! I know you can’t fathom a struggle outside of not being able to find the right lyric for the next pissing ditty but some people have to work for a fucking living! And when they can’t be arsed working for a year, or they get kicked out of their team, some people can’t live off fucking royalties!” Ringo yelled, stopping John in his tracks. “Because you take a break to smoke some pot and I've taken a break to shove my guts back inside my own chest!” 

“I’ve still been working! You were the one that heard it first! You pestered me about that bollocks until I told you what it was!” John whipped around with an accusing finger, much to the bewilderment of Ringo. 

“You what?” He took a single step backwards in confusion, and John’s accusing finger dipped slightly. 

“For the broadcast?! In the hospital?” He insisted, and Ringo's mouth snapped shut. 

The hospital? The song for the broadcast? The broadcast. At the party. 

Billy. The TV. 

Ringo took another step back as the sight of the TV replaced John’s wary face. His legs buckled ever so slightly and his fingers grasped at air to keep him upright. 

“Fuck- Ringo?” For every step Ringo took back, John started to take one forward. 

“I-uh-” Ringo stuttered, and John’s hand darted out to take a hold of his wrist as his legs buckled fully, and John lurched forward to support him as Ringo gave out.

John helped him awkwardly sit down on the gravel with an alarmed look on his face. This was not what he signed up for. All Soldie- Sellers had asked him to do was make sure Ringo was ok and then ring him before twelve. 

It was half eleven and Ringo was now lying on the driveway halfway to his house. 

John nudged him with his foot. Ringo just stared off into space with wide eyes, inhaling shaky breaths.

Uh oh.

“CYNTHIA!” John burst through his front door, the handle slamming on wall, and ran into the kitchen where his wife was standing looking like she had just witnessed a murder through the kitchen window. 

Cynthia slowly turned to him as John fell against the table, exhausted from abandoning ringo. 

“John...why is Ringo halfway down the hill?” She asked faintly, and John wheezed an uncomfortable laugh as he caught his breath. 

“Well... you see...he just...collapsed, y’know?” He said between breaths, and Cynthia nodded minutely.

“And you...left him there?” She questioned, her voice unusually high. 

“I mean...I didn’t know what to do-”

“GO FUCKING GET HIM!” Cynthia launched a wooden spoon she had skillfully hidden behind her back and John screeched as it smacked on the forehead, sending him tumbling back. 

“Alright, alright!” He whined, scrambling away from any future projectiles and towards the front door again. 

Cynthia watched from the window again as John ran back down their road and stood over ringo again. He stared down awkwardly at the man who hadn’t moved this whole time, and looked back to Cynthia watching through the window, who nodded expectantly. John looked down despairingly before clumsily taking one of Ringo’s arms and throwing it across his shoulders and taking it with his left hand. His right hand wrapped tightly around Ringo’s waist and he hauled him up so they stood side by side. Ringo seemed to be somewhat there, not a total deadweight. 

His head hung forwards and his bare feet dragged across the gravel as John staggered back to his house. 

Cynthia watched the sight worriedly, and then found her feet as they reached the door, rushed over to let them in and help John carry Ringo into the sitting room, where they deposited him onto the sofa. 

They stood over the man for a moment, and Cynthia took in Ringo’s state for herself.

He looked to be in a state of shock, eyes wide and hands shaking slightly as they sat in his lap. He stared right through her, and she looked to John, who was chewing his lip worriedly as he looked down at the man. 

“John, what the hell did you say?” She questioned patiently, and John balked.

“Whoa whoa, you’re not blaming this on me!” He said hurriedly, and Cynthia eyed him dryly.

“Even you couldn’t fuck something like this up this badly. What did you say?” She repeated, and John grumbled but acquiesced.

“Uh- I asked him about a song I showed-“ John started, but Cynthia cut him off.

“Wait- not in front of him.” She pointed to Ringo, who clearly still had no one home behind his eyes.

“Right yeah.” They retreated out of the living room, and John flopped down at a table as Cynthia went to finish her cup of tea that had been so rudely interrupted. 

“So what did you say?” She prompted, and John scrubbed a hand across his face as he thought back. 

“Uh…yeah I asked him about the song…for the broadcast, the one I showed him when we was in the hospital.” John said slowly, and Cynthia hummed.

“And did he say anything?” She pressed, and John shook his head. 

“Nah it was a…switch flicked or something. He was gone.” He waved an emphatic hand and Cynthia nodded. She had seen much the same from the kitchen window. “It was weird, though…it was like…I don’t know.” John continued vaguely, and Cynthia cocked her head.

“How do you mean? Did he looked like he was going to…y’know…before?” She asked, but John shook his head.

“No, we were talking about the song because he said we weren’t working, but he was there when I showed him the song I was working on, in the hospital.” John explained, and Cynthia frowned as she looked down into her tea mug.

“There’s something going on here.” She said after a long pause. “But I don’t think it’s our business to know.” 

John agreed silently, desperately curious but knowing that they had no justification to ask aside from pure nosiness.

John nodded pensively, fiddling with his fingernails.

“Well we can’t just ignore it.” He said, looking up to his wife. “We should let someone know.” One person came to the forefront of both their minds.

“Sellers?” Cynthia suggested, and John leaped up.

“Fuck I was supposed to ring that bastard.” He dashed over to the phone on the wall and scrambled around for the notepad upon which Sellers number was written. 

“Here!” He looked back as Cynthia tossed the paper over, and he caught it with a grateful smile. 

The phone rang only twice before a familiar uptight London accent came through.

“ John?” Sellers sounded relaxed and composed. John wasn’t looking forward to interrupting the man’s morning.

“Sellers!” He said with clumsy joy.

“ What’s the news? Is he alive?” Sellers joked, and John chuckled nervously. “ John?”  

“We have had a small incident.” John could hear swearing and clattering on the other end of the line, but pressed on. “Ringo is alright…yeah he’s alright but he, uh, had a moment. He’s not saying anything and he sort of fell over on the driveway.” John explained awkwardly.

“Fell over? Did he hit his head?” Sellers questioned, and the previous composure John had heard was nowhere to be seen.

“Well he sort of…collapsed. He went all funny when I mentioned the hospital but I did catch him.” John knew he was making a right mess of this by the sound of muffled swearing from the other end of the line.

“What’s he doing now?” 

John looked back to Cynthia and repeated the question with a hand over the receiver. She ducked into the living room and then stuck her head out.

“The same!” 

“The same.” John repeated confidently.

“ John, I don't know what ‘the same’ is.” Sellers said calmly, but John could tell his patience was running thin.

“Oh right, yeah. He’s just sitting and staring. His hands are shaking and stuff.” He said hurriedly. More clattering on the other end of the line.

“ Right, I’ll be there in about a quarter of an hour. Just leave him be in the meantime. If you want to do something…give him a cigarette or something.” Sellers instructed rapidly, and John had barely enough time to confirm before the line went dead.

He set the phone down gingerly, looking back to Cynthia who had disappeared back into the living room. 

He followed her path, opening his mouth as he crossed the threshold.

“Cyn, he-“ He cut himself off as he was greeted by Cynthia’s palm facing towards him as she crouched down beside the sofa on which Ringo was sitting. 

Ringo had changed position, previously sitting back and now leant forwards with his head cradled in his hands. 

Cynthia was facing away from John, and he could see her other hand resting on Ringo’s shoulder. It shook slightly. 

He heard her faint whispers as John stood in the doorway, too far to make our individual words. 

Every now and then, a lower whisper would reply to her. 

John swallowed, suddenly struck with a wave of guilt. Hadn’t he just spent the last ten minutes tearing Ringo apart? What if he really had caused all this?

He back-pedalled out of the living room as quietly as he could, looking back through the wall to the gravel road that led down to Ringo’s house. 

He really should’ve just called Sellers from the other man’s house. He should’ve just kept his comments to himself. 

George hadn’t even wanted John to have a go at Ringo either. George was just tired of it all. Oh god what would George say? He certainly wasn’t fond of Ringo any more but causing…whatever this was in his honour surely wouldn’t go down well. 

You’ve really done it now, haven’t you, John?

John sat down shakily at the kitchen table again with his head in his hands, unconsciously mirroring Ringo in the other room. 

He wasn’t sure how long he sat for, his mind spinning loops of logic, but judging by Sellers’ commute estimate it was a fair amount of time.

The sharp rap at the door broke John from his reverie, and he scrambled to his feet, chair tipping backwards with a crack. He dashed to the door and wrenched it open, locking eyes with a similarly ruffled Sellers, still wearing the same suit and overcoat as the previous day.

“What a weekend this is turning out to be.” The manager greeted with a tight smile, and John gave a weak laugh before turning heel and leading the Sellers into the house.

He stopped at the entrance to the living room, holding out a hand to usher the man through. 

Sellers nodded gratefully, abandoning the suitcase John hadn’t noticed he was carrying by the door and striding into the room.

John watched as Cynthia, who hadn’t moved from her position beside Ringo, noticed the approaching man and quickly rose with a last whisper which made Ringo look up in relief as well.

John caught a glance of a haggard Ringo with red eyes before Sellers pulled him into a rough bear hug, obscuring the smaller man as Cynthia joined him in the doorway.

“C’mon.” She whispered, and John let himself be pulled back into the kitchen, leaving the two men be.

They swapped places, this time John taking up a post beside the kettle and starting to make tea for them both as Cynthia picked up his fallen chair and sat on it. 

They idled in silence for several minutes as John made the tea, then as he joined her across the table, he finally popped the question.

“So what’d he say?” He asked quietly, and Cynthia aimlessly stirred her drink as she stared down into the small whirlpool it made.

“Well…first thing he did was apologise for the fuss.” She breathed a laugh at the absurdity.

John copied, hunching his shoulders. Always like the man to be polite, he’d found. Before it all, when they’d stayed in the hotel by the hospital, George had told him Ringo had apologised for being in a coma.

“So I said it’s no bother…and then he said sorry again, because he’d bothered so many people. I said people worth knowing don’t mind the bother…but then he said he didn’t know…who he knew? If that makes sense?” She explained hesitantly, and John furrowed his brow.

“He doesn’t know who he knows?” He repeated, and Cynthia nodded.

“Well- what kinda bull-“ John spluttered, but Cynthia cut him off immediately.

“John, do you truly believe after everything that’s happened today, that Ringo’s lying?” She pressed. “After everything? ” 

John sat back, slightly mollified, and shrugged as he fiddled with his mug.

“We’ll I don’t know, do I?” He justified, and Cynthia sighed.

“It’s ok to be confused, John. We hardly have any experience here, or even all the information.” She said patiently, and John looked up with a small smile on his face.

“Since when did you get so wise?” He joked, and Cynthia blushed.

“Give off. But yes, that’s what he said. I tried to get him to explain but after that he wouldn’t say anything else. He wanted to wait for Sellers.” She continued, and john looked over her shoulder to the entrance to the living room, where Ringo and Sellers still resided. 

“Well maybe he’ll be able to shed some light upon the situation.” John said hopefully, and Cynthia agreed with a gentle nod. 

They sat at the table for some time, sipping their tea and waiting. They never heard a peep from the living room, their wait only accompanied by their occasional comments and replies.

Eventually, though, they both became aware of two familiar voices getting louder.

“-but nothing before.” Came Ringo’s quiet voice, and both Lennon’s looked to the living room door.

“Of course. Of course.” Was the reply from Sellers, and then both men emerged into the kitchen. 

They walked side by side, and John caught Sellers’ hand on the younger man’s shoulder before it slid off as they came into view. Ringo’s head was downturned, hair hanging down to obscure his eyes. 

Sellers had shed his overcoat, and it was draped across Ringo’s bare shoulders, the man still only clad in shorts.

In the calm light of the kitchen, John could see the angry red scars that covered Ringo’s midsection, permanent reminders of past events. 

John stood up awkwardly as the men approached the table, and took Sellers’ outstretched hand.

The handshake was firm and Sellers gave both John and Cynthia a half smile. Something was obviously on his mind, and John would bet his life that it was to do with the state of the man beside him. 

“I just wanted to thank you for all you’ve done for us. I know it’s not been easy, and we’ve left you in the dark for a good while” Sellers opened, and John nodded as he looked down to Cynthia, who smiled.

“It’s no trouble, honestly. And we’re not really entitled to anything about you.” John addressed the last sentence to Ringo, who hadn’t looked up yet. Sellers noticed his gaze and carefully patted the racer on the shoulder.

“We’re still figuring out what happened. Today and yesterday. We’re also wondering if you could help us with filling in some gaps. A quid pro quo, if you will. Because this is affecting you, now.” Sellers said with the same half smile, and John looked between the two men.

“It’s not really me you should be explaining to, if that’s what you want. I know George would be grateful if you could clear some things up.” He proposed hesitantly, and Sellers nodded in understanding.

“George will come later, as will Paul. But we may as well be all on the same page, now.” Sellers admitted, and John nodded several times.

“Take a seat, then.” He swapped around the table to sit on the same side as Cynthia as Sellers and Ringo accepted, sitting side by side on the other side. 

Ringo still hadn’t said anything, and now he sat back in his chair, hair still hanging over his eyes and hands tucked into the pockets of his overcoat.

John sat across from him, and watched his reaction as he nudged Ringo’s bare foot with his shoe under the table.

The man barely reacted, eyes flicking up to lock gazes with John across the table, head tilted forwards.

They held the gaze for several moments before Ringo dropped it, looking back down to the pattern of the wooden table. 

“So. John, could you fill me in on what happened today?” Sellers began, and John blinked as he was distracted away from Ringo. 

“Hm? Of course.” John gave a quick summary of the morning, beginning with the time he had knocked on Ringo’s door to the conversation they had had whilst walking up the hill. 

John winced when they got to the argument, and he covered it as briefly as possible until he got to the mention of the hospital. At that point, Sellers, who had been staring at him rather intently, broke away and looked to Ringo, who nodded once. 

John paused in the middle of the explanation, looking between the two men quizzically, and Sellers looked back to him.

“Ok. You mentioned playing and talking to him in Monaco. What were you playing?” Sellers pressed.

“All You Need Is Love. I was practicing for the broadcast.” John said instantly, and Sellers made a noise of surprise.

“Broadcast?” 

“Our World. It was a week or so ago.” He explained.

“Do you have the date?” Sellers asked, and John whistled between his teeth, beginning to think back.

“The twenty….?” He looked to Cynthia for confirmation, but they were interrupted.

“The night of the gala.” Ringo muttered, drawing the attention of the table.

“The gala?” John questioned, but Sellers seemed to know exactly what Ringo had meant.

“Is that what you saw?” Sellers asked the younger man, and Ringo nodded once more. “Ah well, that shines some light upon things.” He said with a slow nod.

“It does?” Cynthia asked curiously, and both men on the other side of the table looked to her consideringly. 

“I can’t remember anything…from the hospital.” Ringo revealed after a beat, and for the first time in a while, John was speechless. Thankfully, Cynthia was not.

“What- nothing? How can that be?” 

“From before the race to when I woke up in England the night we got home it’s all gone. It didn’t happen at once, but…” Ringo trailed off. 

“We think it’s a result from the crash, or perhaps the coma.” Sellers picked up where Ringo left off. 

“You don’t remember anything?” John echoed, and Ringo turned his gaze to him. Now that John knew the truth, it was like Ringo had changed somehow. He looked different. His eyes were different.

“No. I just put it together. Sometimes I get bits and pieces. At the gala, when I saw your performance, you can imagine my confusion when I remembered hearing that sound before.” He explained, and John nodded, brain ticking like a clock as he processed the tsunami of information and consequences.

“So when I reminded you about the song…?” He asked, and Ringo gave a single nod.

“Does it hurt, when you remember things like that?” Cynthia asked.

“It’s like…someone pulling a rug out from under you. Your head is trying to work out when it happened, why it happened, if it really happened. It’s like a hit of the worst drug in your system.” 

John nodded along, turning over every interaction he had had with the man before and wondering what Ringo remembered about that.

“Y’know… all this could’ve been avoided if you had just said that before.” He blurted out, and he felt Cynthia whack his shin under the table.

“Look at it from where I’m sitting, John.” Ringo said dryly, John furrowed his brow. But then he realised. As far as Ringo knew, this was the first conversation he was having with him. Bit of a long shot to knock on his door and start explaining his medical history just in case they met.

“And was all…that yesterday because of the same thing?” John asked further, and to his surprise, Ringo cast his head down again, sitting back in his chair. 

“Similar.” Sellers said uncomfortably, and both Lennon’s sensed the new tension.

“Well thanks for letting us know.” Cynthia butted in with damage control, and Sellers looked to be grateful for the change in subject.

“Glad to be of service. I believe in the next few days our man Youngman will have some plans drawn up for your band and will likely call a meeting of some sorts, so that’ll likely be the time in which I fill in your other two friends about all this business.” Sellers looked to Ringo, who was back to staring at the table. “I think we’re all very eager to get past all this.”

Notes:

Prolly shoulda said something at the top notes abt the plot twist shit
'ready ur pacemakers' or sumn

things will keep being expanded upon but if you are gen confused bc this is like a long project jus lmk and i'll clarify in comments or sumn.

Chapter 12: Bristol Fashion

Summary:

5063 words

The British-English phrase shipshape and Bristol fashion means in good order, efficiently arranged.

Notes:

Big thanks to EbethBeatlebub for their help on this fic - and cajoling me into keeping on writing

“So how was that?” 

“Humiliating.” 

Sellers sighed as he searched through Ringo’s cupboards for any kind of drink, eventually finding a few bottles of Coca Cola at the back of the fridge. 

“Don’t think of it like that. At least it’s over now.” The manager said optimistically, opening both bottles and sliding one across the kitchen bench to where Ringo stood, slowly making his way through a cigarette.

“But it isn’t, is it? Now the other two are going to want the same.” Ringo replied irritatedly, flicking ash onto the bench-top.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” Sellers placated calmly, sipping his own drink. 

Ringo sniffed distastefully.

“Yeah. How did the meeting go?” 

Sellers let him change the subject, unwilling to make a bad day worse.

“Informative. The teams still want nothing to do with us, but it’s becoming quite clear that some of the higher-ups are becoming quite bored of this charade. I asked a few men about future projects of ours and they gave about as much protest as a small lettuce leaf would to a bullet.” Sellers said lightly, picking up the cigarette carton Ringo had discarded and selecting one for himself. 

“And what does that mean for us?” Ringo prompted. News from the Formula One business had been slow as of late, most occupied with the season still running. 

“It means-“  Sellers lit his cigarette “That we won’t face much resistance from them when you go back.” 

“But you said the teams still hate me?” 

“I did. But with FIA support, whoever is running this little vendetta against you to keep you out is able to bully new teams as well. Now, however, we have an opening.” Sellers proclaimed, emphasising his point with a point of a lit cigarette. 

“You know as well as I do that those new teams are bombs on wheels.” Ringo pointed out, and Sellers shrugged.

“You might have to drive a bomb for a bit until this charade drops. An ‘in’ is an ‘in’.” Sellers said plainly, and Ringo hung his head in frustration. “But you know that isn’t the only option.” 

Ringo froze. 

“What’d you mean?” He asked carefully, and he heard Sellers chuckle knowingly.

“Your phone rang yesterday while you were getting patched up. This was sat beside it and you’ll never believe who was on the other end of the line!” 

Ringo looked up to see Sellers holding up the Ferrari business card like it was a winning poker hand. Ah. That option.

“I can explain-“ Ringo began, but Sellers cut him off with a snort.

“No you can’t. Don’t worry about it.” He dropped the card and it fell on the bench between them. “The moment we keep secrets between us is the day they get the better of us and succeed in beating us down, ok?” Sellers dropped his tone, and Ringo nodded, the guilty feeling in his stomach roiling around.

“Who was on the end of the line?” He flicked his cigarette to the phone on the wall.

“Clapton. He asked if we had considered his offer yet-”

“He didn’t make a bloody offer.” Ringo interrupted, and Sellers nodded.

“Well that’s what I said, not knowing that he had said anything to you at all, and he clarified that although it wasn’t an official offer, he was still watching. I took a chance and guessed it was about a place, and so asked what would he be looking for. He was rather helpful and said ‘anything’.” 

Ringo huffed a laugh at Sellers’ dry tone, looking down at his drink.

“Yeah. He found me at the track down the road. Wouldn’t confirm anything but still.” He explained, and Sellers nodded.

“Well it does give us an opening, a foot in the door if you will.” 

“It looks like the vendetta is still going strong too, if they’re being all under the table about this.” Ringo added, and Sellers hummed in agreement.

“Ferrari would be the team I’d pick to be able to work around something like this. Being in the sport as long as they have does carry certain…perks.” 

The kitchen was quiet as both men ruminated the situation, taking alternating sips of their drinks and drags of their cigarettes. 

“I do wonder if...people like Clapton working under the table are what is changing the FIA. Those bastards don’t have a shadow of a spine anyway.” Ringo commented, and Sellers hummed. 

“I don’t know...would you have any interest in driving for them?” 

Ringo shrugged.

“It's not the driving part I'm on the fence about. It’s the fact they want me to give a bloody audition. What’s wrong with the last three years?” He grumbled. 

“Maybe they’re concerned about the crash?” Sellers suggested, and Ringo scoffed.

“ They’re concerned?!” He said disbelievingly, taking a drag of his cigarette between his words. “I’ll make ‘em worried about how I feel.” He pointed his bottle to his chest and Sellers cocked his head.

“Are you worried, though?” He pointed out, and Ringo closed his mouth with a click.

“Well I dunno, do I? Not tried it yet.” He said defensively. 

“Maybe getting out on the rally track wouldn’t be so bad, then. Perhaps with a little more preparation and a proper car, this time.” Sellers proposed innocently, and Ringo shrugged.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe should wait until all this business is over with.” He waved vaguely up the road, and Sellers narrowed his eyes.

“Maybe. But I know for a fact that you could stall for England. First it’ll be this, then it’ll be ‘oh not on me birthday!’ then it’s ‘not in the winter it's too muddy!’” Sellers imitated, putting on an exaggerated Northern accent and sticking his cigarette in his mouth for greater effect. 

Ringo sneered sarcastically, blowing a cloud of smoke in his manager’s face. 

“Yeah but do you disagree about waiting until this is all over?” He insisted

“What’ve you got to do with Youngman and Epstein and all that?!” Sellers questioned incredulously, and Ringo shrugged aimlessly. 

“We might need to liaison or something.” He justified defensively. 

“We? No, Richard. Me. You don’t liaison, you create need for a liaison.” Sellers laughed

“Which one of us is Youngman’s cousin, hm? Me. That’s who. He’s fragile, y’know? He cries when someone swears in front of him. I could be there for him.” Ringo said emphatically, gesturing rather dangerously with his cigarette. 

“You want to liaison for Youngman with Epstein and Lennon and all that?” Sellers asked, deadpan, and Ringo nodded against his better judgement.Sellers sighed heavily, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “I know what you’re doing, you're avoiding driving again. You’re cutting off your nose to spite your face!”

Ringo was.

“I’m not! Youngman needs a forceful voice in his corner.” Ringo insisted.

“I think you said three sentences to Lennon today.” Sellers commented dryly, “That must be a record.” 

“I did never! We was talking before!” Ringo argued, his accent getting heavier the more he dug himself into this hole. 

“Oh yes, remind me what you said on the driveway?” Sellers said with sarcastic curiosity, and Ringo paused.

“Well I dunno- it was all very quick, y’know.” He spluttered.

“That’s funny, because I remember it being an argument.” 

“You don’t need to talk to liaison.” Ringo maintained, and Sellers didn’t say anything for a few seconds, just letting the bullshit hang in the air like some steamed hams. 

“Talking is precisely all liaisons do .” He pointed out. 

“You could do the talking for me. I’ll be the brains, you’ll be the mouth.” Ringo declared, and finally, Sellers leant back with a cheshire grin. Ringo’s stomach dropped.

“Ok, sure. You can come with me to the meeting on Friday, up at the studio.” He acquiesced gracefully. Ringo blanched.

“W-well, no I just need to-”

“No, no, I need you there. I need the ‘brains’ of this operation.” He quoted with a grin. Ringo scrambled around desperately to get himself out of the hole.

“They won’t let me in! I’m not part of the team!” He protested, his cigarette finally burning out. 

“Yes they will. You’re the liaison. ” Sellers insisted, and Ringo fixed him with a death glare.

“You’re such a cunt, y’know that.” He sighed, words devoid of any real heat. He sat back, lying in the proverbial bed.

“Look in the mirror, Richard.” 

 

//0‑0\\

 

When it came to friday, Ringo was far less comfortable lying in the bed he’d made. 

Putting off racing again by doing this was like dodging the draft by cutting off your own arm. 

And he wasn’t scared of racing. He was just waiting until the time was right, that’s all. 

But right now, the driver's seat was looking pretty good. 

The doorbell rang like a funeral bell, and Ringo wasn’t proud of the way his heart jumped. 

He strode out of his trophy room with a slight stiffness in his step, both from his non-existent nervousness and an ache from his formerly broken leg that came and went periodically. 

The bell rang again as he reached the door handle, and he greeted his manager with a mock-judging stare.

“Impatient today, are we?” He snarked, and Sellers gave a dismissive sniff. 

“Slow today, are we?” He mocked. “Let’s get going, Y- What are you wearing?” Sellers paused from turning back to his car on the drive to stare at Ringo’s clothes.

Ringo looked down in confusion, genuinely confused. His black suit was perhaps a little much for the warm weather, but Sellers was wearing an overcoat on top of his suit.

“Clothes? I don’t-?” 

“Go change.” Sellers interrupted, and Ringo furrowed his brow in indignation.

“What? Why!?” He protested. 

“You wore the same bloody suit to the meeting in Monaco.” Sellers sighed, and Ringo’s shoulders dropped. 

“I did?-oh. Best not, then.” He mumbled, and retreated back inside. 

Sellers had only a minute to wait, as soon the man was back at the door, quickly tucking the hem of a white shirt into some blue jeans. The sleeves were already rolled up, and Sellers looked him up and down as Ringo finished and shut the door with a grunt, the manager greeting him again with an approving nod. 

“Good enough? I didn’t wear this to the airport or anything?” Ringo asked sarcastically, and Sellers gave him a dry look.
“You wore the suit to the airport.” He informed him, and Ringo paused as he slotted his keys in the door.

“Did I? I thought...Oh.” He cleared his throat after a beat and resumed locking the door. 

“As I was saying, Youngman rang me last night for some advice on what he’s going to propose tomorrow, so we might actually play a liaison role, as what he’s suggesting is rather dramatic, but you and I have experience in the matter one way or another. The real problem after all this has been done is where to put all their bloody cash, hm?”

“I think that’s a selling point rather than an issue.” Ringo snorted as they walked towards Sellers’ car, a Pontiac from the year before. His hand stopped just before it touched the passenger door handle. “You did let them know I’m coming, right? This won’t be a surprise?” He questioned, and Sellers chuckled as he got into the driver's seat.

“Yes. I let Epstein know, and he said he would let his boys know that we’re part of Youngman’s team.” The Pontiac engine rumbled to life as Ringo joined his manager in the car. “I think I said you were…assisting with acquisitions?” 

“I’ve never done an acquisition in my life?”

“It’s like a merger. You’ve done mergers.” Sellers said dismissively as they started to drive away from Ringo’s house, the gravel crunching under the slow roll of the tyres.

“On the racetrack.” Ringo said emphatically.

“Unimportant. What is important is that you help Youngman when I try to wrangle McLennon or whatever his name is.” Sellers waved a vague hand as they made it to the open road.

“Paul?” 

“That’s the one. And Harry.” 

“George.” 

“Exactly. Hell, perhaps you should talk to them instead!” 

“Shut up and drive.” 

 

They arrived at the studio the same time as Youngman was getting dropped off by his own chauffeur, and they waited patiently by the gate as the younger man crossed the road with his briefcase and a wide smile, zeroing in on his cousin. 

“Ritchie! Long time no see!” Youngman called, and Ringo couldn’t help the small smile that crept across his face at his cousin's enthusiasm. 

“Feels like years.” He chuckled, and extended a hand to shake, which Youngman scoffed at and used it as a tool to tug him into a quick bear hug. 

“Ah, you’ve gotten taller-!”

“I have not.”

“You frown still-!

“I do.” 

“Love the new look-!” Youngman flicked Ringo’s forehead playfully, tapping the long scar, and Ringo huffed patiently as he dodged another tap.

“You think that one’s bad-“ He went to lift his shirt but Sellers cleared his throat amusedly.

“Youngman it’s lovely to see you, but we do have a job to do.” He pointed out, tilting his head towards the studio door behind them. 

Youngman blinked, looking between Sellers, Ringo, and the studio door.

“Oh, right!” As if on cue, the door swung open with a flourish, Brian Epstein standing behind it.

 

//0‑0\\

 

To say George wasn’t looking forward to the coming day wasn’t an overstatement. 

He knew the planning for the shop was about to be shut down. All his effort and late nights were to be washed down the drain, but if he was being honest to himself, they deserved to be. The shop was doomed from the moment it turned from a passion project to an outlet for his frustration, to a way to prove to the rest of the band that he was capable of something aside from songs. A way to distract himself.

It was ironic, in a way, that the man who had inspired the mad progress of the shop was now going to dismantle it. Because it wasn’t Sellers or Youngman that cared. For some reason it was Ringo. 

And now Ringo was strolling through the studio with his two guard dogs and being ushered through by Brian himself, straight into the heart of the building.

Straight into George’s heart.

The shiver that fluttered down his spine was the same feeling that surfaced all those weeks ago in Monaco when he sought refuge in Ringo’s room.

The shiver had disappeared since, giving way to feelings of worry and then anger the next time he saw Ringo. 

Seeing the man so broken and beaten down had broken down George’s walls too, had made him complacent. But now Ringo strode past the staircase at which George hid at the top, spine of iron and sure of tone as he greeted Paul and John outside the meeting room.

George didn’t miss the way John gripped Ringo’s hand as they shook, the way that his friend gazed intently through his glasses to the man in front of him, eyes full of something George could only guess was concern. Concern for a racing incident that happened weeks ago. 

Even John had jumped ship from his side now. 

And now the shiver was running down his spine once again as he studied the Ringo from his vantage point. Hair cut differently, swept up from his forehead with scar on full display. No shaking of the hands as he was introduced to Mal and George Martin, the whole studio emerging to meet the new arrivals.

A man sure of himself. No hint of the mess from the nights gone by. 

Ringo had healed and moved on, leaving no room for George, and although George screamed to himself that this is what he wanted, to be away from this mess, it hurt cut deep.

 

“George?! We’re getting started if you want to come join us!” Brian called up the stairs like a father calling his surly son down for dinner. 

George didn’t give a reply, simply taking a moment to send a prayer and push himself away from the stair bannister and slowly descend to the ground floor. 

“-and George-! Have you all met George?” Brian finished introducing the gathered members of the studio to the guests as George approached, drawing the gaze of all gathered.

“Oh! Uh, yes we have! Hiya George!” Youngman looked past Sellers to spot George, giving him a small wave.

“Welcome.” George couldn’t just ignore Youngman, even if the bright man had an uncanny resemblance to his cousin.

Said cousin also looked to George, levelling him with an impassive gaze that pinned him to the spot. Insufferable. After all this time he was still shaking in his boots. 

“Should we- uh, get going then?” Paul interjected with a quick smile, and George broke the gaze, looking to his bandmate in silent relief.

“Sure. Where are we sitting?” He replied, and Brian held an arm out to lead them all down the hall.

“Just in the conference room if you can. That’s where all the papers are, I believe.” The manager led the way down the hallway, the guests up front and George taking up the rear with Mal between him and the rest of the band. 

In the conference room they all fanned out, Ringo, Sellers, and Youngman sitting at the end of the table furthest from the door and the rest of the band and staff sitting around them.

George took the opposite end of the table, sinking into his chair with a small grunt. Paul, who sat to his left, snorted.

“Tired, are we?” He whispered, and George nodded, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eye. 

“Mhm. But what’s new?” He joked, slightly louder than his friend and attracting the attention of Brian who sat to his right. 

“Boys, please.” The manager admonished as he organised several manilla folders that were stacked in front of him.

George held up his hands in mock surrender, drawing a finger across his lips in a zipping motion, but then leant back over to Paul.

“I reckon I'll be asleep by the end of this, anyway.” He murmured, and Paul stifled his chuckle in fear of another death glare from Brian. 

At the head of the table the three guests had put their heads together and were muttering quietly together, only looking up when one of the tea ladies brought over some drinks. 

George’s mirth died down quickly as he observed the trio as they resumed their discussion, Youngman breaking away to dig some papers out of his briefcase to show Ringo and Sellers, who nodded enthusiastically.

“Tea, dear?” One of the catering ladies tapped him gently on the shoulder, breaking George out of his reverie with a start.

“What-? Oh, no thanks.” He stuttered, looking up at the kind woman who nodded and moved onto Brian, who was glancing irritatedly at his watch. The manager also declined tea, and George was just about to ask what ants were in his pants when the door to the conference room swung open behind him. 

“Pete! I thought you’d never come!” Brian said, relief obvious in his voice, and George looked over his shoulder as Pete Best strode into the room like a small hurricane, shucking his jacket and tossing it ontop of a struggling hatstand. Sunglasses still covered his eyes despite the indoor setting, and he flopped into John’s temporarily vacated seat as the other man followed the tea lady to study her biscuit selection.

“Sorry Epstein. Flight was delayed.” Pete said dismissively, swiping a pack of matches from the ashtray on the table and lighting a cigarette. 

George watched impassively, taking the discarded matchbook once Pete finished and lighting his own cigarette. 

“Pete’s here everybody.” Paul joked under his breath, and George looked back to him and chuckled. The three guests also stood witness to Pete’s entrance, and George watched as they exchanged an unreadable glance before shuffling their papers and looking away. 

George huffed and copied, studying the grain of the oak desk in front of him as the meeting looked like it was going to start.

Pete would be Pete. His antics were practically part of the band’s image by now. 

“Well now that everyone is here now, should we get started?” The low chatter throughout the room died at Brian’s words, and all eyes turned to him. “Youngman?” The manager looked expectantly to the man sitting to Ringo’s left, who nodded quickly.

“Yeah, that’d be great! So, uh, thanks for hearing me out on this, but I think we have some real good ideas with us today-” Youngman began, but he was soon cut off

“Good ideas about what?” Pete interrupted brashly, and Youngman paused, hands freezing on his papers. 

“Well, uh- your finances- and uh, your taxes-”
Pete spluttered in outrage, looking from Youngman to Brian like both men had just asked him to eat his first born child. 

“You brought me back early because of taxes ?” He demanded, and Brian huffed a sigh.

“It's very important Peter, this is big-”

“I was on a beach in the BAHAMAS-”

“Would you just let the boy finish? ” Sellers barked, silencing them all. Pete looked back, mouth gaping open like a goldfish, as Brian nodded. 

Youngman blinked nervously and thanked Sellers with a quick smile. 

“Yes, well as I was about to say, we’re looking at unprecedented increases in income through our system, because your current financial setup is….quite inefficient-”

“Who made the current setup?” It was John interrupting this time, and George couldn’t help himself from sending an irritated glance in the other man’s direction. He was trying to listen for christ sakes. 

“That’s not really important, what we need to focus on now is-”

“Brian set it up.” Pete stated, accusation loud and clear. “Didn’t you Brian?” He looked pointedly at the manager, and George could see the tension in Brian’s jaw as he nodded.
“Like I said, it’s not very important.” Youngman repeated, this time with a little more force behind his words, attempting to power on. “What is important is what we’re suggesting. Your current arrangement works like any other job, where your profits and royalties get deposited directly into your bank accounts. This makes you vulnerable to the 95% tax bracket, and therefore you only really profit 5%.” 

George nodded along to Youngman’s words, occasionally glancing at the other members of the band as he spoke. He was wary of their reactions towards money and its politics, as it had the cruel ability to turn even the kindest into greedy devils. 

He himself felt vindicated by this sudden attention to their taxes, having tried to bring attention to it on Taxman and having been branded as nothing but a rich crybaby. 

He looked back to the opposite end of the table as Youngman started to pass around several sheets of paper, one for each of them. 

When George obtained his own, he realised it was a summary of all their incomes and taxes, illustrating Youngman’s point very succinctly. 

The seven figure taxed income section hurt the most. 

“And you say there’s a way to fix this?” Paul looked up from his own sheet, and Youngman nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes, so the plan would be to invest and create a business.” Youngman explained, and George furrowed his brow.

“And how would that solve the problem? Wouldn’t that just be giving the money away?” 

“No, the business would be yours, and it would be like pooling your money together, but you could only withdraw as much as you contribute. And as business taxes are much lower than your income taxes, it would dodge that situation.” Sellers stepped in, and Youngman nodded in agreement. 

“Wouldn’t that...I don’t know… look suspicious?” Pete pointed out “Like public tax evasion?” 

As much as George despised Pete’s interruptions, he conceded that this time the drummer had a point. 

“Well you would eventually need to invest it into something, like another business like music publishing...or retail.” Ringo spoke up calmly, and George’s eyes instantly flickered to him. Retail. 

Ringo’s eyes stayed fixed on Pete as he talked, and George couldn’t detect anything in his eyes that told him that Ringo knew what he meant by retail. 

But maybe his shop wasn’t dead yet. 

The group continued to inquire about the idea, which gradually morphed into plan as the band warmed up to it. 

Their early worries were assuaged by Brian’s enthusiasm that emerged with the promise that Youngman would handle almost all of the transfer from the current system.

Ringo remained silent for the rest of the meeting, seemingly content to observe. Occasionally his eyes landed on George, who would make sure to lock his gaze with a muted intensity. Ringo would always look away first, leaning over to Sellers to make a quiet comment or listen to one in return. 

 

After several hours of dull negotiations, George began to zone out, staring at the grain of the oak table again as the group debated around him. When Paul or Brian would inevitably shake him to consult on a small detail or issue, he would rise from his seat to retrieve a tea from the catering ladies in an effort to remain awake, for the meeting was important, just not very entertaining. 

On his fifth trip to the tea table he noted with a small amount of mirth that Ringo seemed to be in a similar state of intense boredom, with a burning cigarette hanging from his lips as he picked at the frayed sleeve of his shirt. 

George looked down to his tea, stirring in the sugar with a small spoon. He subconsciously turned back to the head of the table to get another glimpse of Ringo, to see the way the cigarette was held so delicately-

George took a sip of still boiling tea, the scalding liquid snapping him out of his reverie, as he fought not to screech. 

He forced the drink down his throat, wincing at the burn and waving a hand at the concerned tea lady as he glanced back at the table to ensure he hadn’t made a scene with his antics. Just his luck that Ringo seemed to be the only one that noticed, the rest still wrapped up in money. 

George hurried back to his seat, ignoring Ringo’s concerned gaze, and held his deadly mug in his lap, staring down at the tan coloured liquid intently. 

Idiot. 

 

The meeting stretched on, tiny details being hashed out and points of contention being argued to death. At two they broke for lunch, the group filtering into the dining hall and raiding the catering ladies’ stash of sandwiches and biscuits. George was the first one out of the conference room, sick to death of tiny details being hashed out and points of contention being argued until they were barely even understandable. 

George planted himself firmly between Paul and John at one of the dining tables as they devoured their food, Pete and Mal filling the rest of the table across from them.

“So, what’d you think of it?” Mal broke the easy silence that had fallen over the table with his casual question, and John shrugged in the corner of George’s eye..

“Sounds interesting. Only problem I can see with it is where we would begin investing to reduce suspicion.” 

On the other side of George, Paul shrugged.

“Well they said we have time, up until the end of the year maybe.” He pointed out

“So five months.” 

“It’s a target not a deadline.” Paul insisted “As long as we keep this on the down low, we can take our time.” 

Mal opened his mouth to reply, but then his gaze switched from Paul to just above the bassist’s head. 

“Mal-?”

“Mr McCartney, would you mind awfully coming with me for a few moments?” Sellers’ voice came from behind, and George looked back in surprise, mirroring Paul. Curiously, John didn’t look back, continuing to pick at his food. 

“Yeah, sure.” Paul said, the bewilderment evident in his tone. He rose from his seat and followed Sellers out of the dining hall, George watching his retreat with a small frown.

“What’s that all about, d’you think?” George asked John as the two men disappeared from view, and he glanced back to see John shrug.

“Something about Ringo, no doubt.” John theorised casually, focusing rather intently on his chicken sandwich. George went to look back to where the men had disappeared, but something made him pause. Spending half his life with John had allowed him to pick up quite a few of the man’s tells, and now John was holding something back.

“What’d you mean?” George pressed “How’d you know?” 

“Just a guess.” John said shortly, not meeting George’s eye. 

“What you saying, John? Have you been speaking to them too?” George accused as the rest of the table watched silently.

“It’s just a guess, mate. Nothing more.” John said defensively, but George wasn’t buying it.

“Answer the question. You been talking to them?” He demanded. 

“It’s hard not to when he collapses on your bloody doorstep.” John snapped, finally looking up at George, who recoiled in shock. 

“So you have been talking to him?” George stated coldly, and John scoffed

“Did you not hear what I just said? He collapsed on my doorstep. You just want me to leave him there?” 

“What’d he say? Is that why he’s here? Is you two all buddy buddy now?” George interrogated.

“George you know that’s none of your business mate, calm the hell down.” John said firmly “You’ll find out when Ringo wants to tell you, ok?” 

“When Ringo wants to tell me what?” George challenged, and John’s mouth clicked shut, letting George know that John knew he had messed up. 

“Just let it go, George, you can’t keep being angry at him-” John pleaded, switching subject, but George scoffed. 

“I can do whatever the hell I want. Is that what he’s told you?! What other shit is he trying to peddle?” George looked around the room furiously, spotting Ringo’s retreating back as he followed the same path Sellers and Paul had taken. 

“Oh no you don’t.” George spat, and jumped from his seat, dodging John’s restraining arm and darting after Ringo.

Notes:

FIA - The Fédération Internationale de l'Automobile is like the big boss of Formula 1. They make the rules and regs and all that.

Chapter 13: The Misery Olympics

Summary:

3221 words

George stalked after Ringo with a face of thunder, following the man who was unaware that he had a tail. George was content for it to stay that way until he figured out where Ringo was going, hopefully to Sellers and Paul, but John had other plans. 

They turned down a long, empty hallway, Ringo several metres in front. 

George heard his heavy pants as his bandmate caught up to him, and his loud voice blared out before George could silence him.

“Oi! Ringo!” John called, and both men looked back, one in anger and one in curiosity that quickly turned to alarm. 

“John?...George?” Ringo called uncertainly, and George could tell the man was trying to gauge the waters, wondering if George was still angry. Unfortunately for Ringo, he was. 

“Ringo. We need to have a talk.” George faced the racer, folding his arms across his chest.

Ringo glanced over his shoulder as he stood opposite, and George snorted.

“Always running to your manager, eh? Not today. Today it’s just us.” George glanced around, finding an empty recording room between them. He stepped forwards and opened the door, holding out his other hand in an invitation. “I think it’s time for some things to be cleared up, don’t you think?” 

Ringo stared with wide eyes, fingers going up to rub at his forehead. George didn’t move, content for Ringo to make the next move. With one last look over his shoulder, Ringo stepped forwards and allowed himself to be ushered into the recording room. 

George looked back to John, who had watched the whole exchange with an unreadable expression.
“I’ll talk to you later.” George promised, intending that to be their last exchange, but John called out as he started to follow Ringo into the recording room.

“You won’t need to.” The door closed with a light snap, and Ringo turned to face George at the sound. 

“Y’know, Sellers would be able to explain this much better than I-”

“I don’t care, I want to hear it from you. John said you had something to tell me.” George cut him off, his monotonous tone making Ringo step back in what limited space they had.

The room wasn’t small by recording room standards, but it was still only a few square meters and filled with microphones and amps.

“Right, yeah. Of course. Well, first thing’s first, you’ve just got to hear me out, ok?” Ringo said, and George nodded stiffly. 

And so it all came out. 

If George had a list of predicted excuses Ringo would come out with, the reality that he had lost his memories of the aftermath of the accident would be about five miles down the list. It was so bizarre that it crossed the line of believability and then hopped right back over again, as no sane man would try and lie about something like this. 

Ringo laid out a whole timeline, including how he had made the decision to tell John in the hopes of getting more information, and then making the decision to tell George today. 

And the further Ringo explained, the more George was able to piece things together. And the further he realised what had really happened.

“So I never really met you?” George finally interrupted after several minutes, and Ringo nodded slowly. “You were never really there?”

“In a sense…no. You met…someone who looked like me, spoke like me…but didn’t act like me. A few weeks ago Sellers told me-,” Ringo’s voice broke slightly, a slight hitch in his breath, “That it was like I was drunk. Like the crash had done something to my brain.” 

“So all this, all of your antics , all of the drunk nights and freakouts, was because of this?” George questioned, and Ringo didn’t answer for a moment, choosing instead to hold his gaze with George until the man dropped it in embarrassment. “Look, I-”

“Something I hope you never get to experience in life is the feeling of abandonment, George. The feeling of putting your heart and soul into something and then never getting it back. Because I didn’t just ‘crash’ into that marina, George. I lost my career, I lost my future, and I almost lost my life. And only one person was there for me. Because what you said, that I should’ve ‘shrugged off’ in a week or so, everyone said. And so when Sellers was there, everyone else wasn’t. Not my mum, not my friends, not my colleagues, and certainly not you . And so it’s a very tall order for you to complain about my antics when I didn’t hear a peep out of you after I came back to England.” 

“I tried to be there, but you dumped me at that airport-”

“Oh boo-hoo, George. I got my career ripped into shreds!”
“This isn’t a fucking competition. This isn’t the misery olympics!”

“But you seem to be the only one here determined to keep sulking about getting left behind! John has moved on! I don’t know who you are, George! And once you realise that, you’ll have a far easier time understanding the fact that I left you at that airport because I was having the worst day of my life and you were somebody that had just tagged along because I was coming to my fucking senses and trying to figure out what was going on!”

“It’s always the other guy’s fault, huh?!”

“Well, George, when you crash into a marina with a drive shaft in your chest, you can be the one who can say how it affected you!” Ringo asserted loudly, and stepped forwards forcefully. George fought the urge to step back, folding his arms and clenching his jaw. His blood boiled. Not only from being humiliated as he was but from the sheer anger of the rejection of the last shreds of the person he had known being torn up in front of him. 

Memories of laughing together in a garden and shared glances now laying in tatters. 

So now he stood firm.

“So, George Harrison. My name is Ringo Starr, nice to finally meet you.” Ringo stuck out his hand to shake, but George was too stunned to do anything but stare at it. “Let’s hope this is the end of all this.” Ringo dropped his hand and brushed past George to the door, pulling it open and stepping out. George was rooted to the spot, but at the sound of the door swinging back, words leapt from his lips.

“So is this it?” He turned to see Ringo looking back, and George continued, “Are you just going to leave?” The unspoken ‘me’ at the end was clear to Ringo, and he shrugged.

“That’s not my choice.” The door closed with a sharp snap, leaving George staring into the wood with shaking hands.

 

“About as well as you can drive.” 

“What?”

“I said ‘About as well as you-’”

“I heard what you said, I was just giving you a chance to take it back.”

The conference room was silent, and George tried to level Ringo with an impassive glare as all eyes turned to him. 

He knew he was out of pocket. The second half of the meeting had gone well, and now he was churning the waters. For what reason? 

The way Ringo had just come swanning back in after the break, stinking like a cigarette filter and smiling and joking with Sellers and Youngman like nothing had happened.

So when the meeting started to wind down as the sun set and the conversation meandered to the progress of their latest album, George struck. 

Never at one point did he think it was a good idea, in fact he knew it was going to be one of his worst, but the potential look on Ringo’s face took priority over any consequences. 

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Brian looking between Sellers, Ringo, and himself, and John had his head in his hands. 

At Ringo’s reply, George just shrugged. Ringo scoffed.

“Is that all you’ve got to say? Typical, eh?” He stood up abruptly, his chair turning over. Brian started to sputter out an apology on behalf of George, but Sellers held up a steady hand. 

“It’s quite alright, Epstein. I think it’s quite clear what George is trying to say.” He said calmly, fixing George with a low glare before looking up to his protege with an eyebrow raise. 

Again, George shrugged. 

“I don’t have to take this. After all we’ve done today.” Ringo declared, and stalked out of the room. 

Below the table, George felt a kick against his left ankle, and looked over to John giving him a death glare.

“The fuck was that for?” He whispered furiously, and George just shrugged once more. 

“George, what-” Brian was cut off by the roar of an engine outside, and then George looked over to the windows overlooking the darkening street as the engine was drowned out by the screeching of tyres. Both John and Sellers rushed to the window, and an astonished shout came from the two. 

“He’s ripping up the concrete-!”

“He’s got your car-!” 

The last shout came from John, and this time George rushed over to the window, shoving his bandmate out the way to watch as his Jaguar E-Type was spun around the narrow street in a skilful donut burnout. 

“You fucker!” George sprinted out of the conference room, racing to the front door of the studio where the side cabinet that he had left his keys on earlier that day had now been propped in the way of the door.

The cabinet hit the wall with a bang as tyres continued to screech outside, and George yanked open the door as distant police sirens came within earshot and the stench of burnt rubber filled his sinuses as Ringo spotted him on the doorstep.

The window of the Jaguar was wound down and Ringo started to laugh and gesticulate, flipping him off several different ways.

The sirens got louder as George raced down the steps, wincing at the roaring engine as he stood on the curb.

He waited for an opportunity to strike, and darted forwards, grabbing the driver's side door and yanking it open furiously.

The car stopped spinning, and instead Ringo revved the engine as George grabbed a handful of his shirt. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” He demanded, and Ringo laughed in his face as the back wheels began to spin. 

“Showing you what a shitty driver I am!”

 Down the end of the road the sirens got louder, and both men looked down the car as a police car came into view, lights blazing. Ringo’s smile fell.

“You IDIOT! Now my bloody car is going to be taken and we’re going to be arrested!” George yelled, incensed, and the barest hint of alarm flashed past Ringo’s eyes before a wide grin appeared on his face.

“No we ain’t!” The man grasped a handful of George’s shirt and yanked him into the car, over the driver’s seat. George yelped, hand still clutching Ringo’s shirt but this time it was in surprise rather than anger. 

He fell into the passenger’s seat and had to plant a hand on the dashboard to stop himself careening into the windshield as the car was kicked into reverse and they started to fly back down the road, the police car almost at their bumper. 

They sped away, Ringo twisting around to look through the back window with the driver’s side door still hanging open. 

George swore as he led in his seat, arms and legs akimbo and the bright police headlamps blaring right into his eyes. 

The wind whistled in through the open door as they continued backwards, and George looked up to Ringo, whose face was pinched in concentration, tongue between his teeth.

George quickly clambered forward, back over Ringo’s lap using his legs like rungs on a ladder. He stretched out, the wind blowing the door open to its fullest extent. His fingers scrabbled for the handle, and he made the mistake of looking down as he grasped the handle. The dark road rushed past his face, mere centimetres from his nose. 

He froze, whether it was from fear or shock, he didn’t know, but the next thing he knew was that there was a firm hand grasping the back of his belt and pulling him back into the car. 

The door closed with a snap, and George yelped again as the car spun to the side, and he felt Ringo’s hand above him as the man shifted the car into first as they spun a full half circle in a junction, now facing the right way. 

George still led half in his seat half in on the centre handbrake, and he pushed up to sit upright as Ringo continued to shift up gears, speeding down the dark London roads and taking corners at the last minute as the police car dropped further and further back. 

George felt laughter rise in his chest as they drew further ahead, and when they got out of the city centre and out onto open roads, Ringo could really open the throttle and they lost their tail. 

“Holy shit!” He sat back in his seat with a grin, sliding down the leather as he processed what they had just done. “...HOLY SHIT!” Ringo, who had been driving with a similar grin, cried out in surprise as he was whacked on the arm.

“What the hell, George?!” He whined, but the man wasn’t having any of it.

“The fuck did you do that for! We could’ve just given an excuse and now they have my licence plate number!”

“No they don’t.” Ringo said dismissively. “At what point could they take down a string of letters and numbers? They wait until after they’ve got us to take the details.”

“That’s not the problem here! What’s the point in doing all this when it could’ve just been dismissed!”

“Can’t dismiss two brandys and half a bottle of wine.” Ringo let out a burp to punctuate his statement, and George furrowed his brow.
“You mean…? You mean to tell me you did all of that drunk!? ” 

“It all worked out. Besides, you would’ve copped the blame too. For being a cunt, that is.” 

George scoffed in disbelief.

“That doesn’t make me criminally liable!”
“You don’t deny you were a cunt though, do you?” 

“Yeah well I think this little escapade balances it out now.” 

Ringo didn’t reply, and they cruised along the country lanes in silence. 

George hadn’t the foggiest where they were going, and at this point he didn’t care.

He didn’t know for certain at what point Ringo had gotten plastered, but he had a small inkling that it was after their argument.

Unsurprising, really, after what had happened after other arguments. 

As they continued to wind down the lanes, George began to recognise the landscape and put two and two together.

“Are we going to your house?” He didn’t know what he hoped the answer would be.

“No.” Apathy. Or perhaps faint disappointment. 

They turned down the narrow lane to the rally track they were both familiar with, and George looked around in confusion as Ringo parked up near the gates to the track. 

“Are we going on the track?!” He questioned in alarm, but Ringo sent him a look that could only mean ‘don’t be ridiculous’ as he opened the car door.

“We’re getting you new tyres. They keep spare ones here for race days.” 

Oh. Right. After all those burnouts and turns the tyres on the Jag must be smooth. 

He followed Ringo out of the car, leaving the headlights on and pointed towards a large shed with a tin roof by the side of the track labelled ‘garage’. 

The door was locked by a heavy padlock and chain but Ringo circled around to the back of the shed, where a stack of bricks had been abandoned against the back wall. 

George watched as Ringo scaled the bricks and started to fiddle with the tin sheets on top of the roof, testing the resistance against a small push. 

Eventually one of the sheets lifted up with a rumble of metal, and Ringo looked back down to George.

“Keep watch, will you?” Before climbing into the shed through the roof.

“Jesus christ.” George looked around the dark forest lining the track, biting his lip. “Is this legal?!” He called, and light clattering answered from inside the shed.

“Just think of it as me cashing in my full ticket from that race I left. I saved them money and now I'm taking it back! Now get out of the way.” George had barely taken a step back before four tyres came sailing out of the roof in rapid succession, crashing onto the dirt with small bounces. 

Ringo came hopping out after, replacing the tin sheet and clambering down to grab a tyre in each hand. 

“Well come on then, don’t you want new tyres?” Ringo cajoled, and George nodded silently, jogging forward to grab the other two and follow Ringo back to the car. 

“Why did you leave that race?” George questioned as Ringo searched the boot of the Jag for the jack, and the man fixed him with a careful eye as he returned to the side of the car with said jack. 

“You can probably work it out. What’s it to you anyway?” He said defensively, and George shrugged, holding the tyres upright between his legs as Ringo began to jack up the car. 

“So it was the memories? About the race?” 

Ringo didn’t look back as he pried off the hubcap of the front left tyre, starting to hum as he started to loosen the lug nuts. It took a few seconds for George to recognise it as ‘All You Need Is Love’. 

“Memories. Thoughts. Feelings. They all hurt.” 

“So you going to stop racing? Because of the memories?” George’s tone wasn’t accusing, instead curious without judgement. 

“No. I just- gotta get over them.” The tyre came loose with a yank, and Ringo sent it rolling away. He looked over to George, who sent a fresh one rolling back to him. “Mind over matter, y’know? I’ve just got to prove myself.” 

“To who?”
“Ferrari. They said they’d give me a seat if I could show them I still have it.”

“Why Ferrari? Why do they have an open seat in the middle of a season?” 

“...One of their drivers died at Zandvoort. So I’d do pre-season testing and start next year.” 

“What team was the guy that hit you at Monaco?” 

Ringo’s hands paused on a lug nut, and George feared another episode, but he soon resumed tightening the new nuts.

“Not Ferrari I don’t think. I’m not sure he even has a seat anymore either. I was told they had a bad season. Money troubles.” 

George nodded and sat down on the spent tyre that Ringo rolled over next. 

“Mhm. Well I hope, uh, it goes well for you. If tonight is any indication, you definitely still do have ‘it’.” 

Ringo looked over, mid tightening of lug nuts, and sent him a hesitant but warm smile. 

“Thanks mate. I hope it goes well too.”

Notes:

Happy Christmas
consider this my gift
except for starrison holiday gift exchange ppl
if you have me = <3

Chapter 14: Wer rastet, der rostet

Summary:

"He who rests, rusts."

2,623 words

“That was quite the show last night!”  Youngman’s voice seemed genuine, free from the usual British sarcasm that Ringo expected.

“You think so?” He replied amusedly, holding the phone between his shoulder and ear as he sat in Sellers’ office, the man himself trying to work behind his desk to little success. Likely due to Ringo’s conversation with his cousin. 

“ Yeah! The whole table was watching you out the window! Epstein said you’re a wizard with that car.” 

“Glad to know I still have fans.” He snorted 

“You’d have a few more if you started racing again.” Youngman reprimanded, the smile still evident in his voice.

“Don’t you bloody start. Sellers is on my arse as well!” 

His manager gave an audible sigh from his desk, which Ringo astutely ignored. 

“Oh don’t turn this into a pity party! You need to get back out there! Smoke some cocky young’uns and show the oldies who’s boss!” Youngman insisted passionately, to which Ringo replied with a groan.

“I’ve won three Grands Prix, I think the oldies know who’s boss.” 

“Who gives a shit about a driver who won three races? That’s firmly midfield.” 

“Not for some.” Ringo said defensively, casting his eyes over to Sellers to make sure his boss wasn’t getting any more ammunition for his campaign, while simultaneously refusing to acknowledge the truth of Youngman’s statement.

“ Some? Meaning who? Some dolt who don’t know the first thing about racing? C’mon Ritchie, you know there’s more to spending your days polishing old trophies.” Youngman insisted.

“Mate, I didn’t come here to be lectured.” 

“It’s just friendly advice.” 

“Did you come here just to bash my career?” 

“No, I was calling to see if you were home yet, but obviously you’re not because you don’t know why I’m ringing.” 

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Ringo chuckled, propping his feet up on Sellers desk and then crossing them when his manager pushed them away with his pen.

“You’ll see when you get home.”

“Don’t be a knob, Youngman. What is it?” 

“An early birthday present. And before you say it was rushed, Sellers’ll tell you I’ve been planning it for weeks.”

Ringo side-eyed his manager, who was still resolutely staring at his paperwork.

“Am I going to like this surprise?” He said cautiously, and Youngman laughed.

“One day you’ll thank me.”

The line went dead with a click, and Ringo set the phone back into the cradle as his gaze locked onto Sellers.

“What’s he on about?”

“I have a small mountain of paperwork I don’t have time to meddle in your cousin’s little surprises-“

“You’re the nosiest bloke in the office, don’t give me that! What does he mean about a birthday present?!”

“Why don’t you go home and have a look. I know I’ll enjoy the peace and quiet.” Sellers suggested with a raised eyebrow, and Ringo eyed him suspiciously as he snatched his keys from the desk and retreated out of the office.

“If you’ve got anything to do with this, you’ve had it!” Ringo threatened lightly, and Sellers waved a hand in acknowledgment as he returned to his papers. 

 

Paul’s car was in John’s driveway as Ringo cruised down, but the driver was more concerned about the car in his driveway.

A shabby old Ford Anglia Super sat proudly on the gravel, shining in the midday sun.

The bodywork was blue, with tarnished chrome bumpers and a cracked windshield.

When Ringo parked his spotless Maserati beside it, the Ford looked even worse.

A small envelope was taped to the wing mirror, titled ‘Ritchie’ on the outside  and holding a single sheet of paper on the inside.

 

Dear Ritchie,

 

Hope you don’t mind the surprise, but I’d had enough of Sellers’ whining in my ear about you sitting on your arse all day, so I thought I’d finally try and get you back into the swing of it all.

 

You began everything with rally, so I thought it couldn’t hurt to try again. The Ford’s an old banger and I had to get it towed here, so don’t start whinging about the money and get repairing and racing, for the good of all of us.

 

All the best,

Youngman.

 

Ringo sighed and folded the paper away, crossing his arms as Ford sat in front of him in all of its rusty potential.

“Ay-up! What you got there?!” 

Ringo looked back at the yell, seeing John and Paul strolling down the gravel road towards him.

“Birthday present.”  He called back shortly, and he heard John snort as the two men got closer. 

"This hunk of junk, eh? You piss someone off or something?" He joked, and Paul slapped him as they drew alongside. 

"You ever keep that mouth of yours shut, John?" Paul sighed and turned to Ringo. "Do you know who it's from?" He asked, gesturing to the Ford.

"Youngman."
"Grand? The kid that helped us the other day?" John butted in incredulously, and Ringo gave him a dry look.

"How many 'Youngman's' do you know? Of course it's my cousin. Who else would give me this and try to kick me up the arse." 

"....Metaphorically or literally?" Paul questioned hesitantly, and Ringo scoffed.

"Metaphorically. It's a rally car, or rather the bones of one. He thinks it'll be a good way to get me back into it all." 

"Racing?" John piped up

"No, cooking." Ringo said sarcastically "Of course racing. I just need to fix it up. Gut the inside…replace the engine most likely…definitely new suspension…"

"That's quite the task you've got yourself there…you need any help?" Paul offered, and Ringo gave him a skeptical side-eye.

"You know anything about cars?" He questioned, and Paul shrugged.

"Not really, but we're good for moral support." He said proudly with a grin before being elbowed in the side by John.

"Oi, who's 'we'?" He demanded lightly, and Paul scoffed.

"Oh come on, we're not doing anything right now, we could help!"

" Again , who's 'WE'. I've got a life, y'know!" John insisted, and turned to Ringo, who was watching the whole exchange with a muted amusement. "C'mon, Rings, you don't want two mangy Beatles hanging around your ankles while you work on this, do you?" He begged, and Ringo felt that familiar burn in his chest, like a deadly form of Déjà Vu that made his vision tunnel and his mind travel back. 

“Y-yeah! I could do that. If you’ll tolerate the mangy Beatle hiding around your ankles..”

George had been so cheerful and giddy, like Ringo was the main event of the race to him. So sweet as Ringo waited before the race, so beautiful. 

"-Ringo?" A tap to his shoulder and Ringo was back with the Ford on the driveway and John and Paul giving him concerned looks. 

"Are you alright, mate?" Paul asked hesitantly, and Ringo blinked as he shook himself out of the memory, surging forwards to open the driver side door of the Ford. 

"I don't mind what you lot do. You can hang around all you want as long as you don't get in the way." He insisted, ducking into the car to disengage the handbrake and start pushing the car around the garage to the back of the house, leaving the two Beatles in his wake. 

"So, you are going to start rallying again?" John jumped across to the other side of the car, adding his own weight to push the car. 

"Depends if I can fix the car." Ringo grunted as he felt the extra force from another man pushing from the back.

"And if you can?" Called Paul, earning himself a sigh from Ringo as he looked back to John.

"Why do you care so much, thought you hated me?" 

John blanched, shaking his head vigorously 

"No, never!" He insisted sagely, barely pushing the car to instead lean against the passenger side door. 

"You tried to fight me just over there!" Ringo pointed out incredulously, doubling his efforts to push the Ford over a small hump in the grass behind the shed. 

"We're splitting hairs here. Point is, now that you and George are buddies-"

"What makes you say that!?" Ringo demanded, leaning on the roof of the Ford after parking it up. John shrugged from the other side of the car, trying to inconspicuously avoid meeting Ringo's eye. 

"Well, y'know you kidnapped George and-"

"I never!"

"-Well you an' George left, and you both came back alive so i'm guessing youse are alright now!" John explained hurriedly, going to lean on the car roof like Ringo but quickly backing out after the man glared daggers at the hands touching his Ford.

"But is he wrong, though?" Paul asked gently, and Ringo's gaze flicked between the two Beatles as he clenched his jaw.

"No, but I don't see how it's any of your business. Don't like people sticking their noses where they don't belong. It's sanitary to mind yours." Ringo ground out, his fingers tightening on the door handle of the car. 

Privacy. That's all he ever begged for. Suppose it was his fault for letting himself get mixed up in those who don't get it themselves. 

"Look, Rings, George is… George is like a brother. We're all brothers, y'know. Even Pete. And when George is all moody and in a piss, we're the ones that have to live with it-" John began

"I-" Ringo opened his mouth with a raised eyebrow, but John continued on.

"-And I understand that's hardly your problem, but it's in our best interest to know if we're going to have to deal with Mr. Stroppy for the next few months, y'see?" He finished with an understanding smile, and although Ringo's eyebrow remained raised, the corner of his mouth turned up too.

"Mr. Stroppy, eh? You put that on any of them badges you sell yet?" He smirked, and the tension visibly drained in John's shoulders as he huffed a laugh.

"It's a nickname that comes with being the youngest. I'd say Paul's more deserving of the title but- Oi!" John whined as he got a smack from Paul, the bassist fixing him with a dry glare. 

"Which one of us sulked after his bird wouldn't go to see Pink Panther with him at the pictures, huh?" 

"Oi, she was being a right cow that day, alright! It was a good movie, wasn't it?" John insisted, and Paul shrugged, leaning back against the boot of the Ford. .
"Why would he know? You take him instead of your girl?" Ringo joked, going to open the driver side door but pausing when there came no response. " No… Youse never?!" He gasped melodramatically

"The two tickets was already bought, wasn't they? I weren't gonna just waste my money!" John blustered, folding his arms and turning away with a red face.
"Two boys going into a picture like that?!" Ringo barked a laugh as Paul blushed too, and John turned back with a furrowed brow.
"What'd you mean, 'A picture like that'?" He demanded, jabbing a finger into the roof of the car in indignation as Paul bit his lip.

"Well, y'know what they say. A film like that is very popular with certain communities. Certain communities that you resembled together." Ringo said roguishly, glancing around his deserted back garden theatrically as John turned an even deeper shade of red, leaning over the car and lowering his voice to a fierce whisper. 

"Are you telling me that Paul and I looked like we was… together?! " He hissed, and Ringo leaned back from the car as to avoid the flecks of spit shooting from the man's mouth. 

He was talking out of his ass, of course. He had never seen the Pink Panther nor heard anything about it's connection with gay men, but it never hurt to wind John up, especially when it was so easy. 

"Hey, hey. I wasn't there, I can only speculate." Ringo said playfully, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "I'm sure you two would've looked great together, anyway." He burst out laughing as John snorted like a bull and started climbing over the Ford with murder in his eyes, ducking away from the car and clutching his side in his mirth. Paul cursed and jumped in John's path, holding his friend back as Ringo skipped backwards across the garden. 

"C'mon, John, he's having you on, you know he is. He's winding you up." Paul insisted, and John scoffed, looking between the mirthful Ringo and his bandmate.

"Is he? Well I don't know why he's laughing when he's gayer for George than I am for you!" 

"Oi! The fuck's that supposed to mean?!" Came the twin shout from both Ringo and Paul, and soon Ringo was stalking over with a finger jabbed in John's chest. 

"I ain't gay for George!" He stated, and this time Paul had to hold both men away from each other as John took his turn to laugh. 

"Don't worry, love. If George didn't have it bad for you then he'd never have spoken to you again after the airport. You're lucky, you are!" John said mischievously "Two drama queens, you're made for each other!" 

"John shut your bleeding trap!" Paul barked, pushing him against the Ford. "Go fuck off back to your house, mate, before you get your gob kicked in." He ordered, and John smirked as he wisely obeyed, scrambling across the grass to run back up to his house. 

Paul sighed as he watched him leave, shoulders sagging slightly. Behind him, Ringo scoffed.

"He's wrong, right Paul? He's chatting shit to rile me up, hm?" He insisted, and Paul shrugged as he turned back to the racer.

"I don't know, mate. George hasn't said anything to us, so John's probably thinking up some stupid explanations to get you worked up." He explained tiredly "But he is right about one thing. George would never even give someone the time of day if they did what you did at the airport, so there must be something going on in that head. Never seen him with anyone but women though." 

Ringo watched him carefully, breathing heavily like a champion boxer about to step back into the ring.

"Look, Paul, you tell that man up there to keep his gob shut about all this, true or not, hm? Because you know as well as I that this talk could ruin a man's career." Ringo murmured, and Paul nodded quickly. 

"I do, I do… But John would never say anything, I swear. He's stupid but like he said, George is like a brother to him and he'd never rat on family. I'll keep him away if you want, all the same." Paul assured him, and Ringo deflated slightly as he turned back to the Ford, running a finger along the flaking paint.

"I don't care what he does as long as he doesn't get in my way…I was joking, y'know, about the movie with you two." He added. 

"I know you were. John will figure it out later too, but he's the hot-headed type as you've seen. You managed to push all his buttons there." 

Ringo looked back to Paul with a sly smirk.

"I did, didn't I? Look, if any of youse wanna come down at any point and help with this thing-" Ringo kicked a tyre of the Ford. "-then be my guest. Even better if you know anything about cars." He offered, and Paul gave a considering nod. 

"Well I'm not much of a mechanic myself, but I might take you up on it anyway when I'm done with the studio. It just gets too…confined in that place, y'know?"

"No, I don't know." Ringo laughed "But that doesn't matter. Come down anytime."

Chapter 15: Pursuit of Happiness

Summary:

4008 words

Notes:

Thanks to all that keep reading and commenting on this fic - really means a lot. Also to the new people that have come, im really glad to have you along for the ride and i really do appreciate all ur comments

 

also this isnt beta'd bc all my friends are asleep but it might be later.

Ringo wasn't in the habit of waking up before the hour hit double digits. Hell, he wasn't really in the habit of waking up before noon unless he had an engagement, but he had made the unfortunate decision of becoming friends with people who did . 

"Why is the FUCKING PHONE ringing at seven A-M." Came the screech as Ringo's landline continued to trill, and loud thumping followed before a small thundercloud of a man came shuffling down the stairs wrapped in a bedsheet.

He had been up late the previous night, not drinking for once but rather moving the Ford to his garage and disassembling it to take stock of the vehicle and see what needed to be done, which turned out to be rather a lot. 

And now the phone was ringing. At 7am.

What did he do to deserve this?

"WHAT?!" Ringo ripped the handset from the cradle with a bark of frustration, not letting the caller speak before Ringo let him know exactly how he felt about the situation. 

" ...Ringo?" Of course it was Paul. Ringo could tag the man as an early bird from the moment they met. 

"Who gave you this number?!" Ringo growled, his voice heavy with sleep, and Paul's response told him he had finally grasped the extent of his mood.

"Uh, Sellers? I went to his office to talk to you but he said you were still at home." 

"Of course i'm fucking home, it's seven in the bleeding morning!" 

"Oh…did you want me to call you back later?" Paul asked hesitantly, and Ringo gave a heavy sigh.

"No. I'm awake now, ain't I? What did you want, anyway?" He said begrudgingly, leaning against his window to feel the cool glass on his forehead.

"Well the thing is I was gonna see if you wanted anything." Paul explained, " Y'see my girlfriend, Linda, she's a fair bit into cars too and I remember you saying something about needing a new engine, so she's offered to come down and see if any of the engines she has might be of any use to you, since she's got quite the collection now…in my garage." 

Ringo blinked, shocked by the sheer generosity in the face of his grouchiness.

"Whoa- I mean, yes, of course I'd love to have her down…how much does she want for the parts?" He rambled, standing up straighter and letting the bedsheet fall off his shoulders. 

Finding decent engines around this area was a nightmare at best when you weren't famous, and given the state of the Ford's engine it was inevitable that he would have to have a dig around. But if Linda had the right parts it would be a godsend. 

"Oh it's enough payment to take it off our hands if she has the right one. Maybe you could look at swapping parts if you're really that interested but that's something to take up with Linda. I'm not really familiar with all this…as you can probably tell." Paul chuckled self consciously, and Ringo shrugged.

"It's no problem. When did she want to drop around? Today? I'm free." He offered, and he could hear shuffling on the other end of the line as Paul consulted his partner.

"She says she can go now if that's alright. We had an appointment cancel on us so we're open all day." 

"Oh yeah that's fine. Head on down!"
"Great! We'll be about ten minutes!"
"...Great." The line went dead.

It was not great. 

Paul and Linda were ten minutes away and he was standing in his underwear in his kitchen. 

Ringo sprinted up the stairs, diving into his wardrobe and pulling out the first two things that didn't make him look like a clown before tumbling back downstairs as he tried to pull on a pair of grey linen trousers over the converse he decided to put on first. 

Another grey t-shirt was pulled over his chest as he burst out his front door, car keys practically held between his asscheeks as he tried to lace his shoes and light a cigarette.

His garage was disappointingly the same as he had left it the previous night, tools scattered about the place and empty Jack Daniels bottles used as wheel chocks. 

The light in the garage was about as bright as a drunk brain so Ringo threw open both the back doors and front doors to let the early morning sun kiss the rusty car as he tried to make the place presentable. 

He kicked the last bottle under a tarp just as the crunching of wheels on gravel reached his ears, and he lit a second cigarette as he looked out the doors.

A shining Aston Martin trundled slowly down his drive, parking beside his displaced Maserati with two people gracefully exiting.

"Ringo! Good to see you, mate!" Paul called, and Ringo waved his cigarette at him, squinting in the face of the rising sun.

"Likewise." He grunted, and Paul's passenger, a young blonde woman in denim overalls, smiled.

"Yes! I've heard so much about you, Mr. Starr. It's good to finally meet you." She said warmly, and Ringo chuckled, noticing her American accent.

"Good things, I hope. Call me Ringo." He held out a hand to shake, feeling the firm grip and slight roughness to her hand as the American took his own.

"Linda." She confirmed, and Ringo nodded in recognition.

"American?" He questioned

"New York. But I'm here on holiday for Paul." She gestured to her boyfriend, who stepped forwards.

"I'm the hotel concierge and mechanic's assistant….Speaking of which?" 

Ringo nodded and stepped aside, letting the couple see the now half disassembled Ford. 

"Of course. Here it is. I had a look last night, as you can see. About as bad as it looks." 

Linda hummed and started to step into the garage, looking to Ringo for permission before fully entering. Ringo gave a nod and she strolled around to the open bonnet, studying the engine and the pieces scattered around on the floor.

"How much did you pay for this?" She called, crouching down to examine the intake manifold. 

"My cousin got it as a project for me. I didn't get a number but probably not much." Ringo replied, following her in with Paul on his tail, and Linda chuckled.

"Well whatever it was, your cousin got ripped off. This is…gross. Call it apprentice quality. I can't find a single decent part here." She stated, sitting back on her haunches and looking back up to the men behind her. 

"I thought the same. That's why I'm looking for a new engine at the very least. Other stuff will need to be looked at but this seems the most pressing." Ringo explained, and Linda nodded in agreement.

"Well there's good news, bad news, and then some more good news." She smiled. "Good news is that I've got the same engine back at Paul's."
"1198cc? Straight four?" Ringo questioned, and she nodded.

"Yep. Bad news is that it's missing a lot. Basically a skeleton." 

"And the more good news?"

"I know a scrapyard a few miles out that should have the stuff we need. I've gone digging around a few times and seen it all there at some point. And it's a good price." 

"Reliable?"

"Depends on the part. But you and I have a good eye, so that's what we'll rely on." 

Before Ringo could reply, more gravel crunched behind them. 

"Jesus christ, what the hell's this?" They turned around at the sound of John's voice to see he and his wife standing in the doorway of the shed, the former having the most disgusted look upon his face. 

"It's a car, John." Paul sniped with a smirk, and Cynthia cut off any potential comeback by stepping forwards to stand beside Ringo and examine the open bonnet of the car. 

"Oh my. That's a right piece of work." She remarked with a raised eyebrow, and John frowned as he stepped inside the garage too, sticking his head around to gaze at the engine as well.

"How do you know anything about cars?! I never seen you even look at an engine before!" He accused, and Cynthia sent him a patient smile.

"Really, John? Even an idiot could see this thing is a wreck." She said serenely, and John looked to Paul with a furrowed brow.

"Could they?" He mouthed, and his bandmate shrugged. 

"Don't ask me, mate." 

Below them, Cynthia crouched down next to Linda to gaze at the rest of the engine. 

"A mess, right?" The American commented, and she nodded vigorously. 

"By the look of it, you're going to have to replace the whole powertrain in this thing. Can't see much salvageable." Cynthia observed, and Ringo groaned as he looked into the engine as well, realising the truth in her statement.

"You think we can get at least some of it at that scrapyard? Maybe the differential?" He proposed, lacing his hands behind his neck in frustration as Linda bit her lip. She picked up a wrench Ringo hadn't managed to clear away, spinning it between her fingers like a pen.

"Maybe. We'll have to do some through digging of course. Can't promise anything but we'll take a look." She said uncertainty, and Cynthia looked between them interestedly.

"Where you thinking of going?" She asked.

"Scrapyard a few miles north. Has some decent stuff as far as I've been able to see. Not promising any miracles, but it's a good place to look." Linda explained.

"You mind if I tag along? Never had the chance to go to one of these places myself. John's never interested." Cynthia replied hopefully, looking at both Ringo and Linda as she asked. Behind them, John sniffed.

"Well it's all rusty metal and tetanus in those places, ain't it? Dangerous, like." He said defensively, folding his arms as Paul smirked.

"If you throw yourself on a scrapheap, maybe." Ringo chuckled derisively. "Some of us are capable of keeping our hands to ourselves." 

John scoffed in outrage.

"Alright fancy boy, you lot bugger off to the scrapheap yourselves then!" He declared, and Cynthia shrugged as Linda looked up to her partner. 

"You coming with?" She questioned, and Paul blinked, his mouth falling open as he looked between her and John. 

"Oh…It's probably best if I- uh, stay with John…" He trailed off uncertainly, still looking between the two. John nodded smugly and turned heel, stalking back to his house with Paul on his tail. Cynthia snorted as soon as they were out of earshot, looking down to the dirt beneath their feet with a small shake of her head. 

Ringo cocked his head, watching her reaction. He always thought the Lennons were a tight couple, a relationship forged in fire, but with a closer look he spotted the small impurities in their bond.

"Trouble in paradise?" He asked quietly, nudging Cynthia with his shoe, and she looked up to him with an unreadable smile. 

"Always has been." She said simply. 

 

//0-0\\

 

There was no chance that they were going to mess about with greasy car parts in Ringo's Maserati or Paul's Aston, so the three of them all piled into Paul's car and Linda took them back to her and Paul's place in London, where a very old Austin pickup truck sat proudly behind the gates of the house.

The two visitors showed some scepticism over their new ride, the truck not even having front licence plates, but Linda ushered them into the car with no room for argument, leaving the Aston behind with Linda behind the wheel and Ringo and Cynthia crammed into the front bench seat. 

Ringo took the window seat, half hanging out the window to give Cynthia some space as she tried to avoid the gear lever going up her ass whenever they turned right.

"How's Paul going to get back?" Cynthia questioned, using Ringo's collar as a handle as they made a sharp turn. "I mean we did just take his car…" 

"He'll work…something out. He's a big boy." Ringo managed to say, collar cutting into his windpipe slightly. 

"We'll go back for him later. Or John'll give him a lift. They're fine together." Linda added

"Yeah…they're like puppies…you've gotta socialise them." Ringo said as sagely as one could whilst being actively choked as they hung another right. 

Cynthia hummed in acquiescence as they hit the motorway, loosening her grip on Ringo's collar. She started to fiddle with the radio, turning dials to try and fill the easy silence. 

Ringo sighed in relief as his airway was cleared, but you would think that Cynthia had grabbed him by the throat again by the sound he made in the next moment.

The radio flicked on, and barely a sound was let out before Ringo slapped the device and shut it off. 

The two women gave twin shouts of protest, but Ringo's hand remained on the radio, blocking any attempts to turn it back on. 

"No music." He said shortly. 

 

//0-0\\

 

The scrapyard was deserted when they arrived, parking the car on the grass outside a large fenced-off area on the outskirts of Kent. 

The chain link barrier ended at a small, one room administrative building, remaining silent as the trio arrived. The door remained firmly shut as Linda knocked and then tested the handle when no reply came. 

"Are you sure this is the place?" Cynthia called from the truck, leaning over Ringo to stick her head out of the open window. Ringo nodded in agreement with her question, gesturing to the empty building. 

"Yeah…this place is sending out all the wrong signals." He added.

After a few minutes of wandering around, kicking up dirt, and generally Waiting For Something To Happen, nothing did happen, and Cynthia decided to jump the fence.

"Whoa whoa! No way, you'll hurt yourself!" Ringo yelped as Cynthia latched onto the chain link boundary like a cat on some unfortunate curtains. 

"Yeah, you're wearing a skirt, hun!" Linda added on quickly, and Cynthia paused, indeed sporting a bright floral skirt. 

"Hm…Well, I'm tired of waiting!" She protested, and Ringo sighed but stepped forwards.

"Here. Please get down." He started to scale the fence as Linda helped Cynthia down, reducing the risk of flashing a passerby to just an eyewitness to a felony, and leaped down on the other side. 

"Now how are we meant to get in?" Linda pointed out with a raised brow, and Ringo held up a finger as he strolled over to the padlock holding the gate closed. Previously inaccessible by means of a metal panel set in front of the chain links with the padlock hanging on the inside, Ringo could now just grab a shard of metal on the ground and jam it down the side of the bolt where the metal loop went into the body of the padlock, and the device snapped open. 

Cynthia drove the truck into the yard and Ringo hopped into the back with Linda, who eyed him suspiciously.

"When'd you learn to shim locks like that?" She questioned, and Ringo snorted derisively. 

"I wasn't born with all this cash." He proclaimed, pinching his stained trousers and shirt several sizes too big. "Besides, I don't see you protesting our trespassing." He pointed out. 

"Eh, I know the owner. I'll leave the cash for what we took and then explain when I see him next. He won't mind, he owes me a favour." Linda explained, and Ringo chuckled and let it lie, falling silent as they trundled into the scrapyard, examining all the wrecked cars and spare parts. 

"Where do you guys wanna park up?" Cynthia called from the driver's seat, and Lydia leaned back. 

"Head to the back left corner. I remember seeing some goodies last time I was here, hopefully no one's nicked 'em yet." She said, and Ringo scoffed when she leaned back as they set off again.

"'Nicked them'? Like we're about to do?" He laughed.

"We'll leave the cash! And besides, d'you want that car to run or not?" 

Ringo wisely fell silent. 

 

True to Linda's word, the back left corner held a variety of quality parts hidden within wrecked cars, and then it was only a matter of extracting them. 

They already had the engine back at Linda's, and she fortunately knew which parts needed replacing, so she and Cynthia picked through wrecks to find those pieces whilst Ringo was relegated to crawling around in the dirt trying to cobble together the rest of the powertrain. 

The smell of grease and oil invaded his sinuses, and any other normal man would call it a plague, but to Ringo it was like a concentrated dose of nostalgia, filling his head with memories of scrabbling around underneath cars the night before a race, just trying to hold everything together until they got to the grid.

The rally cars always held together better than the Formula One cars, taking several beatings and sometimes a head to head meeting with a ditch before giving up, but sometimes it felt like his F1 car broke down if the wind changed direction. 

It was the worst kind of DNF, no one's fault but yet you still had failed. 

The issue would always be something asinine, too. Like a fuel flow issue or a coolant leak. 

Ringo's first DNF in a rally stage was due to the fact a tree trunk was speared through the fuel tank. 

The night after those kinds of races was always the ones Ringo dreaded too, as he joined the engineering in diagnosing the problem as the rest of the drivers either celebrated their podium or championship points. Even worse if your teammate was the one on the podium, 

A teammate was no more than that to Ringo. Another face on the team, another car to beat to the chequered flag. The term was a bit misleading. It implied cooperation, brotherhood. In reality, your teammate was a grade of your performance in the season if you weren't in a high level car. A bad race pace could be attributed to the car, but only if your teammate was also performing poorly. If someone was on the podium and their teammate in the garage, eyes turned away from the car and to the man in the overalls. 

 

Ringo ripped the drive shaft from a Morris Minor with a grunt, narrowly avoiding a glob of oil that fell from the chassis and rolling out from under the car to throw the long rod of metal into the back of the truck before the Morris could fold in on itself. 

The piece clattered into the rest of their haul, rolling to a stop amongst some spark plugs and what looked to be a steering column.

Ringo furrowed his brow and ran an oil streaked finger along the steering shaft, frowning slightly as his eyes searched for Cynthia and Linda. 

The two women surface from behind a Ford Anglia, a different model to the one currently sat in Ringo's garden, and his jaw dropped open slightly when the women shuffled back to the truck holding a complete front axle between them. 

Cynthia caught his eye as they struggled, calling out.

"Well don't just stand there looking gormless! Come help!" She insisted, and Ringo's jaw clicked shut as he rushed to help. 

"I thought you two was getting the smaller parts!?" He greeted in confusion, hoisting the axle on his shoulder and taking the weight from the others. 

"Yes, well we found all the parts and then you took your time getting that Minor apart, so we thought we'd help." Cynthia explained as they loaded the part into the bed of the truck, and Ringo grimaced.

"Do we even need a whole new axle?" 

"Well I'll take it if it ends up spare." Linda grinned and rubbed her hands on her denim overalls, wiping off the excess grease. "Well, I think that's all we can get in this truck today. I'll chuck some cash in the booth if you two can get this secured." She strode off to the security booth at the gate they had opened, weaving between cars to vanish in the mess. 

Ringo nodded in agreement quietly, eyeing the creaking truck suspension. He helped Cynthia close up the tailgate and dug a canvas sheet from under the driver's seat to lay over the bed, tying it down with simple reef knots. 

He watched Cynthia as they worked, the young woman's face set determinedly as she tugged on a finished knot. 

He recalled the look on her face when John had waltzed off earlier, and her comment when he said trouble in paradise. 

"So how's life?" He asked vaguely, fiddling with the edge of the canvas to make it lie flat. Cynthia didn't look up and simply shrugged, tugging her knot a little more aggressively. 

"As fine as life can be. This is a nice little project to get out of the house, get some air." She replied, equally vague. Ringo hummed.

"And what about you and John?" He asked innocently, fingers picking at a seam on the canvas. Cynthia practically strangled the knot. 

"Ah, you know how it is." She gave him a wan smile, abandoning the rope to lean on the edge of the truck bed and fold her arms.

"Something going on?" Ringo inferred gently, and she huffed lightly.

"Always something going on with John. But yes. It's just a matter of time before we find out." She explained placidly

"Nothing's ever private in a life like this." He commented, and she nodded in agreement.

"A blessing or a curse, I can never decide. But-"

"POLICE! THE COPPERS! ITS THE FUCKING PIGS!" Linda's voice came hollering across the scrapyard, and both Ringo and Cynthia stood frozen in shock as the American came leaping and vaulting over the cars. "FUCKING MOVE YOU DOGS!" She screeched just as the dreaded red and blue lights flashed over her head, and they leaped into action, Cynthia diving for the driver's door as Ringo started to climb in the passenger seat.

"CYN, LET THE RACECAR DRIVER, DRIVE!" Linda belted out as she sprinted into view, and Cynthia and Ringo froze once again, staring at each other momentarily before springing back and running around the car like a pair of nonces and swapping sides. 

Linda caught up and dived through the passenger window, Cynthia dragging her through as the engine roared to life. 

Ringo hesitated slightly, his hand on the gear shift as he stared at the exit behind them. 

"What are you doing? Let's get out of here!" Cynthia demanded, and Ringo gave her a confused look.

"But we're not doing anything wrong?!" He said confusedly, and Linda almost slapped him.

"Ringo we are breaking and entering and stealing! Let's go!" 

Ringo blanched and flattened the accelerator, locking in first gear and jerking the steering wheel around as they surged forwards. His foot then stamped the clutch and he yanked the handbrake, the rear of the truck whipping around to point them towards the exit.

Their loot in the bed of the truck clattered around, especially when Ringo hit the accelerator again and they powered through the veritable maze of a scrapyard to the gate, which was still open. 

Linda yelled directions as they weaved through the mess of rusty cars, Ringo narrowly avoiding clipping a destroyed Rolls Royce as he flung the truck around a sharp turn. 

The route to the gate became clear as they skidded around one last car, the police having parked up either side of the gate and examining the security booth on foot. 

They began to run back to their vehicles as the truck came into view, but Ringo was too fast, the ancient truck leaping out of the gates and powering down the road, its cargo clattering in the back. 

The police attempted to follow, but Ringo took to the back streets, zooming in top gear down empty lanes and merging out onto the motorway like nothing had ever happened. 

Notes:

If you dont think the Linda and Cynthia are car people, then im sorry i just know better than you :/
Also im 90% sure this is the first Beatles fic to pass the Bechdel test.
100% sure its the first Starrison fic anyway since ive read all of them lmfao

Terminology
DNF - Did not finish (applied when you start a race but due to any factor you do not complete the race and are removed before the end.
Drive train/ Power train - the system in any and all cars that make it move. Includes parts like the wheels, the axles that align the wheels, the engine, etc.
Differential - a sort of gear system within a drive train that allows two wheels on an axle to move independently to one another whilst still being powered.

Chapter 16: Dancing In The Dark

Summary:

3557 words

Notes:

this is dedicated to my new mutual who told me she saw my nigel mansell pfp and immediately followed. ily <3
nigel mansell is the 80s/90s GOAT for me. If your 90s GOAT begins with *Sen* or *Schu* please leave me alone. you may have the stats but do you have a moustache. No, you dont. Neither does nigel anymore but you get the point. your GOAT can statpad some wins but you cant statpad some testosterone- i am just kidding.

What made a machine able to be so personified? 

What made it your car, not just a car? 

Ownership was an easy cop out. But do you name your desk chair, your mug, your jacket the same way as you name your car?

Maybe it was the way you use it most days of the week, but then why does no man name his wallet? 

And what part of the car are you truly attached to? You can replace any number of parts for a vehicle and still think of it as the same one you paid for. 

Perhaps it's the feeling it gives you. Freedom to go where you need, wherever you want.

Maybe you still think of it the same way like you would a brother, changing so many times over your lifetimes that many comment that you're both completely new people. 

Maybe it's the opposite. Maybe it's because no matter how many times you change the parts, replace the wheels and rip out the seats, it'll still be by your side, ready to go where you need it to next. 

//0-0\\

 

Most of the parts from the scrapyard were compatible with the Morris, and Ringo opted to just buy the rest legally. 

The engine that Linda had offered worked like a dream, the American having repaired and maintained the unit excellently. 

It was a small ordeal to swap out the engines, but Ringo refused any help, not trusting anyone else with the intricate procedure. Only one crushed finger later, the engine was fitted and the Morris was a big step forward to being a decent rally car. 

Their 'heist' had no apparent consequences, but Ringo kept thinking about the escape from the scrapyard, and the rush he had felt as they slid around the tight corners, the way he spun the wheel around like he had never taken a break from the driver's seat.  It was almost exactly like a rally track, if not harder. 

It was addictive. 

The police chase with George had been different. George was everywhere, crawling across his lap and grabbing his thighs and the entire car was full of George. That wasn't normal to say the least.

 

The first time Ringo tried to start the car up, it spat putrid fumes through the heating vents and revved so loud he thought the engine was about to explode. 

Ringo coughed and staggered out of the shed, throwing open all the sliding doors to blow the smoke out. He ripped the key out of the ignition and the car fell silent, sitting innocently in the shed like it hadn't just tried to murder him. 

The black smoke billowed out of the shed, spiralling up to the clear skies. 

Ringo scratched the back of his neck as he waited for his garage to stop being a French WW1 trench, standing in the entrance and trying to squint and see the open engine of the car. 

"So when's the pope being elected?" 

Ringo turned to see George strolling down the drive towards him with a slight grin, gesturing at the smoke twirling in the sky, and Ringo snorted and turned back to the car.

"Not yet. I don't think it's decided." He nodded at the car as the last of the smoke finally left, and George drew alongside him, examining the car as well.

"You're calling the car an 'it'?" He questioned with a raised eyebrow, and Ringo shrugged.
"What else? S'car ain't it?"

"Yeah, but don't people usually name their cars?" George pointed out.

"I don't know. Maybe. I'll call it Bastard. It just tried to kill me an all." Ringo strode back into the garage with George following a few steps behind. "So what brings you down here? If not to check the results of the pope election." He asked lightly, examining the engine with a frown on his face, but when he looked up to George for a reply he gave the musician a slight smile.

"Oh, just visiting John about the band and the business. Still deciding on what to invest in an' all that. Then I thought you were being mauled by a lion by the sound of that car so I thought I'd come down to check you were still in one piece." George sniffed with mock casualness, and Ringo gave him a dour look.

"Glad to see John down here as well." He said sarcastically before starting to dig around the back of the engine. 

"Eh. John's always been the most caring of all of us."
"Never would've guessed that." Ringo replied distractedly, before giving a triumphant shout as he yanked out a rusted out section of pipe several centimetres wide. "Ha! You bastard!" He waggled the pipe at a confused George before flinging it into a pile of broken parts with a clang. 

"What's that?" George asked curiously, and Ringo smiled at him.

"Part of the exhaust. It was chucking fumes everywhere. It's the lion that was mauling me." He stepped over to a pile of parts in another corner and pulled out an identical section of pipe after a few seconds of digging around. 

He returned to the car and looked at George briefly before disappearing into the engine again, but his voice echoed out.

"You doing anything today?"  He called, and he could hear George splutter and shuffle around.

"I-uh, no? No. I am not doing anything."

"You wanna go for a drive?" 

"In what? This?" George asked incredulously, and Ringo laughed, voice echoing inside the engine of the car.

"Why not?" 

 

The car was impossible. It was a viper. 

Fast, angry, and difficult to tame. A perfect match for Ringo.

They sped along the narrow country roads, zooming around blind corners and scaring pensioners into early graves before making it out to the motorway and weaving between the noon traffic. 

George sported a grin wide enough to split his face in two, winding down the window to let the wind stream through the car and laugh at all the shocked faces of the drivers they passed on the road. 

The car was ridiculously loud, the noise of the modified engine without any of the sound dampening in the interior meant that both men heard everything about the engine.

The interior not only had its sound dampening stripped, but also the carpets, back seats, and most of the interior structure.

"I'll add a seatbelt soon I think. Just the normal ones." Ringo explained over the roar of the engine, and George nodded.

"Normal ones?" He repeated curiously

"Well you can get other ones that are supposed to be safe, but we don't even wear belts at all during a Grand Prix so I don't really see the point. They add weight." 

"Better to be slower than dead, though?" George pointed out, and Ringo shrugged

"If I die it's my fault! Anyway, we're almost there." 

"Where are we going, exactly? I hope I'm not the stupidest kidnapping victim in history." George joked, and Ringo snorted as he turned off the motorway and started to speed down a connecting road to a long high street. 

George gazed at the shops they drove past, Ringo forced to finally slow down as they hit traffic.

"'West Kingsdown'?" George read aloud the sign above the post office, and looked over to Ringo in confusion, but the man just smiled. "What the hell are we doing in Kent , Ringo?" 

"You'll see, you'll see." 

They turned off the high street soon after, and watched Ringo suspiciously as he piloted them down the winding roads. 

"If you actually look where we're going, you might see where I'm taking you." Ringo pointed out with a chuckle, and George whipped his head around just in time to see the sign stating 'WELCOME TO BRANDS HATCH RACING CIRCUIT'

"Oh jesus!"

The circuit was empty of any racing cars or people, since although the next Grand Prix was the British one, it would be held at Silverstone this year. 

The actual track was closed to the public, so they abandoned the car and clambered up a grandstand overlooking the circuit as the sun began to slowly inch towards the horizon. 

George let out a low whistle at the sight of the track and closed his eyes, imagining cars whizzing around at two hundred miles an hour. He looked over to Ringo, seeing the man's eyes closed as well. 

"You've raced here before, right?" George asked, and Ringo nodded, opening his eyes. 

"Once. I crashed at the top straight." He said wistfully. "I've never seen it from here though. All the races I went to were at Silverstone. Never won anything there either."

"Well hopefully you'll be back here next year. This is where they're racing, no?" 

Ringo nodded silently, eyes travelling along the track. 

"Yeah… Sorry I don't know why I brought you here. I'm just going to be a stupid mess." He sniffed and wiped his face, turning away with a huff. 

"No, no it's ok. I think the circuit's great. Is…is this because you crashed?" George asked hesitantly, but Ringo waved him off.

"No, i'm just being stupid. I just wanted to win here this year, but now I won't even have a team." He chuckled self-deprecatingly, kicking the metal of the grandstand with no real force. "It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter." He repeated, and George didn't know what to say, simply forced to just stare at Ringo's turned back silently. 

He shuffled slightly, and Ringo seemingly remembered that he was there.

"Fuck. Whatever. You wanna go see where I crashed?" 

 

"I think I remember it on the radio! You just slid, right?" George said brightly as they strolled down the track. They weren't strictly allowed on the tarmac but no one had stopped them jumping the fence, so they sauntered down to the top straight, passing over the finish line as Ringo described the crash.

"Yeah, well it had rained that morning, so when I came side by side with Jim, he closed off the gap on the left side, but I still went for it and hit the wet grass and just slid off into the barrier. My shoulder hurt for weeks after that hit." He said ruefully, demonstrating with his hands the positioning of the cars on the track. George nodded curiously, imagining the scene in his mind and remembering the voice of the radio commentator after Ringo slid off. 

"Nasty." He said simply, and Ringo huffed out a laugh.

"You can say that twice."

They continued walking in peaceful silence along the track, Ringo occasionally retelling memories of his ill-fated race. 

"So you're back to rallying now, for certain?" George asked, and Ringo nodded deeply. 

"Yep. Back to the roots." He said playfully, and George grinned.

"So when's the race?"
"End of the month if the application goes through. Just the local circuit for now, make sure those young guns know who's boss." 

"Oh, so soon? You only got the car a few weeks ago!" He said in surprise, but Ringo shrugged.

"No point waiting. It's like an itch now. A need for speed." 

"Hah! Linda told me all about you lot's little heist! Another run in with the law." He said with mock reprimand, and Ringo gave him a gentle shove.

"Get out. It wasn't a heist anyhow. We paid."

"Yeah yeah…but still, racing at the end of the month. Is the car ready?" George asked casually, and Ringo nodded again.

"The car is probably the easiest part. Now I'm just searching for a co-driver. I was looking into asking Linda, but they don't allow women." Ringo explained

"Linda? Paul's girl? Why Linda?" George said in shock, and Ringo smiled.

"She's fast, she's not easy to spook. When we were trying to get out of the scrap lot, she was directing me like we'd been a team for years. She's brilliant, but like I said, they don't allow women onto teams." Ringo said regretfully, and George tried to hum nonchalantly. 

"Well, I mean… I could do it…? If you really were out of options. I've always wanted to be in a rally car." He said airily, and Ringo stopped walking, staring at George.

"Hold on, since when did you like to rally?" He questioned, and George shrugged again.

"Oh ages. Just never told anyone. But yeah I'd be happy to help." He said magnanimously, beginning to walk again after having stopped with Ringo. 

Ringo hesitated a moment before following. "I mean I was going to help that other time but that didn't work out."

"Do you have any experience with co-driving?" Ringo asked sceptically

"No, but I could ask Linda to help me, and we could drive around a bit to get me some experience."  He offered, and Ringo grumbled quietly.

"I'll think about it." 

//0-0\\

 

That night, Ringo stood with a bottle in his hand, letting the rain fall behind him as he sheltered in the entrance to the shed. 

The old bulb above him blinked with every rumble of thunder in the distance, the summer storm creeping overhead in the late evening to open up the heavens after dark. It was a pleasant storm, with no wind to whip down the collar or blow the house down. Just rain and the distant rumble and flash. 

The car sat quietly in the shed, freshly painted with a white base coat to cover up the places where Ringo had patched and sanded down the rust. It almost looked like a proper rally car now, just waiting for a final design to make it stand out from the crowd. 

It looked good.

"It's lookin' good, mate." John proclaimed brightly, and Ringo turned with some degree of surprise to see the musician strutting down the driveway with a black umbrella and not much else. 

"Where's your shirt, John?" Ringo greeted dryly, "Missus kicked you out?" He asked sarcastically, not expecting John to actually nod sheepishly. 

"We had an argument." He explained with a strained chuckle, and Ringo was momentarily lost for words.

"I-oh…Sorry about that." He said awkwardly, and John shrugged

"It happens. At some point one of us was going to catch on that it's not working anymore." He sounded sadly apathetic. "I don't think either of us are the type to drag it out." 

"So is that it? You two are done?" Ringo asked in concern.

"I don't know. I…don't know." John shrugged again with a sigh. Ringo looked back up to the Lennon house behind them, and then back down to the man who was beginning to shiver.

"You wanna stay here tonight?" He offered, and John smiled tiredly.

"I was hoping you'd ask that. Yeah, I would. Thanks so much." 

"Don't worry about it. You look like you're about to catch frostbite and we can't have John Lennon freezing his little fingers off, can we?" 

Ringo closed up the shed as John waited by entrance, sipping from the bottle Ringo had handed him. He stared at the car as Ringo locked the back doors, pointing to the vehicle with a shaking finger when Ringo circled back around.

"Did you paint that?" He asked, and Ringo grunted in affirmation as he hauled the door shut, hiding the car.

"I just finished when you came down.Tomorrow or the next day i'll paint a design on it, make it look nice and pretty." The padlock was sealed with a click, and Ringo ushered John back up to the house. 

By now the wind had started to pick up, and John was beginning to get soaked by the rain being blown under his umbrella, and in just a pair of jeans, John's lips were slowly turning blue.

John wiped his bare feet on the mat, standing awkwardly in the hall as Ringo hung up his umbrella and locked the front door.

"You can go and have a shower if you want, warm up a bit. I'll bring some clothes you can nick." Ringo suggested, and John nodded.

"Right. If I had a mate who didn't know where your shower was, what directions would you give them?" John asked after a beat, teeth chattering, and Ringo smirked.

"Up the stairs, second door on the left." 

John scrambled away up the stairs, chasing the prospect of a hot shower and leaving Ringo to mop up the trail of water he left on the floor with an old towel. 

He followed John up the stairs after a minute, rummaging through his alarmingly low stock of clean clothes and digging out an outfit to leave outside the bathroom door. 

Just as Ringo descended the stairs again, almost breaking his neck on a rogue wet patch, the phone rang. 

"Gooooooood evening my boy, how are you tonight?"  Sellers greeted with unusual enthusiasm, and Ringo responded with his usual grunt.

"Don't know…a bit cold?" He offered vaguely, and Sellers chuckled

"Well I'm glad, because the application for the rally went through just now, and you have a place! So congratulations!"

Ringo's finger paused from its mission to scrape the wallpaper from the house, and he bit his lip.

"Oh, right. Thank you." He stuttered, and again he could hear Sellers laugh.

" No problem, anything for you. You've just got to swing around to the office some time tomorrow to sign off the form and you'll be ready to race. Have you chosen a co-driver yet? Because you'll need to bring them at some point too, but it's not as urgent." Sellers explained, and Ringo sighed as his finger returned to picking at the wall. 

"No, but I have someone in mind. I'll see if I can persuade them and bring them down as well." 

"No issues. Good luck, my boy. Glad to see you back in the saddle." 

The phone line went dead with a click, and Ringo heard the sound of bare footsteps behind him as he put the handset back in the cradle. 

"Everything alright?" John called apprehensively, and Ringo turned to see him dressed in his borrowed clothes with a towel around his neck to dry his wet hair.

"No, no! Everything is fine. Just a call to say I've got a place in the rally I wanted." He blurted out, and John seemed to relax slightly.

"Oh! That's good. Sorry I thought it might've been Cyn or something…Do you think I could borrow some socks?" John asked gingerly.

"Oh, of course. Sorry, I must've forgotten." He said quickly, and led the way back up the stairs to his bedroom. He heard John shuffle around behind him before the man cleared his throat.

"So, back to racing then?" John said lightly, and Ringo nodded, elbow deep in his dresser.

"Mhm. End of the month." 

"Everything going to be ready?" 

"I bloody hope so." Ringo laughed, pulling out a pair of balled socks and tossing them to John. 

"George was telling me you needed a co-driver an' all that." John continued as he sat down on Ringo's bed to pull the socks on, and Ringo sighed as he lent back against the dresser.

"Why? You putting your foot forward?" He challenged mildly, and John immediately baulked.

"God no.No, George was saying he wanted to do it. I was wondering if you had chosen him yet." John clarified, and Ringo shrugged.

"Eh, I dunno." He said quietly.

"Why? You want someone more experienced?" John asked curiously, voice free of any apparent judgement, and Ringo shook his head.

"No…I don't know…I just-" He sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face. "I just don't know. It's strange. I don't know." 

"George can handle it, I know he could." John said earnestly. 

"Oh yeah, even I can see that. Real resilient." Ringo said absently, folding his arms loosely. "I don't know…" He repeated, and John turned away with visible disappointment.

"Well I mean it's your race. You don't want to feel uncomfortable if you're doing something dangerous." John trailed off, and Ringo snapped his fingers.

"That's just it! It's dangerous. I want him to go but I don't want him to get hurt. I don't want to be the one that hurts him!" Ringo burst out, and John turned back with an open look of understanding.

"You think you'll crash because of him? Because you're trying so hard not to crash that you might actually crash because of it?" He inferred, but Ringo shook his head.

"No, I won't crash. But sometimes you can't do anything and you lose it." He said quietly. "It's not always your fault, but you get hurt all the same." 

John stood up, striding over to Ringo and grasping him on the shoulders. 

"Oi, you. What happened in Monaco was a freak accident, and I know categorically nothing about rally, but I know that car out there is a damn sight better to crash in than those death traps you drive in Monaco. And you won't have stupid drivers out there who could crash into." John said firmly. "Now do you want me to tell him, or do you want to sign him on." 

Ringo smiled, gently pushing John off. 

"Don't you dare tell him. I'll pick him up myself." 

And when Ringo arrived outside George's house at noon the next day, two proper racing seats were bolted to the floor, and brand new five point harnesses sat shining beside them.

Notes:

i tried to research when five or six point seatbelts (the fancy ones) were invented and no one would tell me but i think it was around then. Also the seats i couldnt find a consistent answer. Why does no one document the history of automotive safety smh
if you find the dates of invention for either of these, only tell me if its before june 1968 lmao

also beatles rairpair week is at the end of may so make you u guys get involved with that or you'll never get another chapter from me ever.