Chapter Text
If it hadn’t felt fate-sealing, George would’ve loved to go on a road trip with Bob. He enjoyed his company, and Bob didn’t mind what he played on the radio so long as the car wasn’t entirely and suffocatingly silent.
As it was, though, George felt vaguely like a man going to the gallows. Though that was probably his own fault, he figured.
Bob let his eyes flick over when he stopped at a red light. “You’re alright?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” George nodded, and Bob sighed before reaching a hand over. “Wh—,”
“It’s the closest to a hug that I can give you. If you want one,”
“You’re driving, love, you need your hands,”
“I’ve been driving for more than a few years now, I’ll be alright. And if I do need it back, I’ll just take it,”
The light turned green. Bob went through smoothly, without any issue.
His hand remained out and offered for George to take.
George hesitated before finally taking it, relaxing when Bob gave a reassuring squeeze.
“See? We’re fine,” Bob said, letting their hands drop onto the console between them. George just stared at their hands—Bob seemed relaxed even with only one hand on the wheel, and he’d occasionally squeeze George’s hand in an odd sort of rhythm. It came in triplets, sometimes followed by Bob’s thumb gently rubbing against George’s hand—anywhere he could make it reach—and then George almost laughed.
“You’re calm about this,”
“Told you, I’m used to people assuming what they want,” then, after a brief pause and accompanied by a shrug, “If there’s anyone I have to pretend to date, I’m glad it’s you,”
“Oh,” George nodded. “Thank you,”
“‘Course,” Bob grinned, gently squeezed his hand again, then, “Also, ‘s a little bit funny,”
“Hey—no ‘s not!” But he laughed, wheezing as he shifted in his chair and tried to defend himself. “This is a very serious situation, Bob,”
“…and it’s really fuckin’ funny,”
“You’re an asshole,” George huffed out, though he was still very obviously amused. “I love you, though,” he said, more seriously, and hoped that Bob didn’t look too far into his words.
Bob beamed. “Mhm! See? You think it’s funny too,”
George was safe, for the moment, apparently. And he could live without Bob verbalising it back—the fact that Bob was there, and giving his hand gentle squeezes, said more than enough for him.
Bob continued to drive in the quiet—the only sound the music coming from the radio and the occasional rustle as Bob shifted their hands, even dragging George’s hand back to the wheel with his one time when he needed to make a turn. George found he liked it—he’d known he would, and having Bob’s hand in his as he looked at the scenery they passed only made it better.
Then Bob gives his hand a long, slightly harsher (though still rather gentle, all things considered) squeeze to get his attention. “I’m gonna stop for gas, do you want to get lunch?”
“Oh—yeah, sure,”
“What’re you in the mood for?”
“Anything’s good,”
“Coffee it—,”
“I’ll find something,” George sighed, and he could see Bob’s smug grin out of the corner of his eye. “D’ye know how much longer we’ve got?”
“There’s still a little ways,” Bob shrugged, then squeezed George’s hand before releasing it. He tried to push down the dull pang he felt, instead turning so he could get a better look at what was around them as Bob pulled into the gas station.
George’s feet were propped up on the dashboard of the car and his head leaned on the window. There was no way he was comfortable, but—truth be told, Bob didn’t have the heart to wake him.
Even though it was the cliche, it was true; he looked almost peaceful, the most relaxed Bob had seen him in the past few days. It was fair—he wasn’t even sure what they were meant to do in the situation George had inadvertently gotten them into. And he figured George deserved some peace; he’d seemed nervous and worked up, even with Bob.
He frowned, letting his eyes flick over to George again. If Bob didn’t know himself better, he’d suspect he was a little in love with George—but that’s just what being his friend was like. He was worth—Bob was willing to do just about anything he asked, so long as it was George that asked it. That’s all there was to it; it was George. That was reason enough for anybody.
The radio was quiet in the background as Bob kept trying down the long stretch of road. He sincerely hoped they’d get there soon.
Paul came to meet them when he heard the car pull up.
George got lucky that he’d woken up minutes before Bob pulled down the driveway—though whether it was an accident or Bob managing to be subtle, there was no way to tell. But by the time they’d pulled in and Paul was coming to greet them, George had woken up and stretched out and yawned and managed to get awake enough that you could hardly tell he’d been asleep, and then he managed to grab Bob’s hand again. Neither of them spoke as Bob steered the car down the driveway, and when he shifted it to park George pressed a quick kiss to his hand before practically launching himself out of the car, throwing the door open and almost tumbling out.
“Oh, c’mon, my driving’s not that bad!” Bob teased, shouting after him, and George shook his head quickly as he stretched.
“No, ye did fine, love. Was just long,”
Then Bob exited the car and got into the backseat to grab their bags. “‘s alright if I ago ahead and put these in our room?”
“We’ll get it,” Paul offered, and Bob looked over to George, who shrugged. “We’re still trying to get some last minute stuff done—I’m making everyone else deal with it now, since I’d sorted everything but someone misplaced—,”
“Ah,” Bob nodded, interrupting Paul before he got off too far. “I can get these,” he tried, but Paul shook his head.
“No—we’ve got rooms sorted, we can take them,”
Bob looked to George helplessly. George just shrugged again. “Right, if you’re sure,” Bob conceded, letting Paul take them. Bob hesitated, not sure where he was expected to go, before attaching himself to George’s side. “Weird,”
“If it’s got fucked up, he probably wants to take care of what he can control,” George whispered, right into Bob’s ear. “‘s fine. He seems to know what he’s doing,”
Bob grabbed George’s hand, then, and shrugged. “If you think it’s fine,”
“Yeah. I’m sure it is,” George affirmed, trying to give a reassuring smile and squeezing Bob’s hand.
After dinner, they’d all managed to migrate to the sitting room—the somewhat small group had kind of dispersed into different conversations, Ringo with his camera as they all talked and Bob with George’s mother.
And George found himself in conversation with Paul, with Bob gone off. Paul grinned, making like he was going to ruffle George’s hair. “I’m glad you could bring your boyfriend with you,”
“He’s—yeah,” George nodded. Truth be told, he wasn’t confident in his ability to keep the ruse up, and he didn’t trust it not to make his heart ache, but he casted a glance to where Bob was goofing with Louise and John and Mike and Mimi, and he could practically feel himself softening as he watched them.
“I’m glad you’re happy,” Paul said earnestly, and George hesitated before nodding.
“I am, too,” he paused, watching Bob slip from the small crowd to sit with Ringo (who was busy snapping pictures of everything he could. Paul hadn’t specified what, exactly, to photograph, so he’d apparently decided to do it all, for good measure). Ringo waved when he noticed Bob walking over, then showed him something on the camera, and Bob watched and listened intently as Ringo fiddled with the camera and said something.
“Y’know—I don’t know if I expected him,” Paul admitted. “But I’m happy it is—how long?”
“Oh—uh,” George wracked his brain. “About a month. We, uh—,” George could feel it starting to slip. “I’ve been staying at his?”
But then Bob slid up next to him, slipping under his arm and wrapping an arm around George’s waist. How the hell he was so good at pretending at this, George couldn’t tell—but instead of acknowledging any of it he wrapped an arm over Bob’s shoulders and kissed the top of his head, praying he was doing this right. “What was it?”
“So you two live together?” he asked—it was a fair assumption, after George had stumbled over his words, but still. He vaguely considered melting into the floor.
“Well, uh—no,” The two of them ended up talking over each other—they really hadn’t been rigorous enough when they were talking it over before.
“Yes,”
“Technically, no. But we practically share closets—you can tell it, too. I’ve got at least a third of my clothes at his,” Bob grinned, jabbing his thumb in George’s direction. “We might as well be living together. But because of schedule conflicts and shit, we flop between houses. And we don’t have to always stay together for it to work for us—it’s nice to be in the same place, but we don’t have to be,”
George was almost surprised by how easily Bob half-lied—technically, almost everything he had said was true. It was just… very, very slightly altered, vital details left out so no one could figure them out.
Then he made eye contact with his mother. He couldn’t tell if she was onto them or if she was disappointed that he hadn’t told her sooner—and she looked almost like she was ready to size Bob up if she had to, even though they’d met multiple times before. They’d even gotten together on their own time without George because they took enough of a liking to each other—but it seemed as though now Bob was being viewed through an entirely different lens, whether or not he was aware of it.
It didn’t seem to bother him too much, at least, when he dislodged himself from George’s side, grabbed his hand to give a quick, reassuring squeeze, and ran away to get some drinks for the both of them. When he returned, George was able to get a good read on him—truth be told, Bob looked like he was beginning to get overwhelmed.
“Thanks, love,” George smiled, taking the drink Bob offered him, then grabbed Bob’s free hand to steer him to a corner away from everyone else. Quieter, “are you alright?”
Bob hesitated before nodding. “Yeah, I’ll be fine,”
But he fidgeted with his drink, and his own fingers, and George could see the way his eyes darted around the room—like the number of people actually there had finally hit him.
“Finish your drink and we can go to our room,” George offered, and Bob started to shake his head before shrugging.
“We don’t have to. And you don’t have to stay with me, either,”
“You’re only here because I asked you to be,” George reminded him, eyes softening. “And you’re my best friend. I want to stay with you,”
Bob shrugged again, then hesitated before taking a quick drink. “I’ll be fine,”
“But you’re not,” George pointed out, putting a hand on Bob’s arm. “I’m taking you to our room when we’re done,”
“I’m fine—,” Bob started, but when he caught the look in George’s eye he stopped. “Alright. I—thank you,”
“Of course, love,” George smiled softly, then gently nudged him. “I’d be a shitty fake boyfriend, too,”
“…I hate you,” Bob joked, and George’s smile widened. He seemed to be getting more relaxed the longer they hid in the corner together, George practically shielding him from the crowd.
“You love me,” George corrected, and Bob heaved an incredibly put-upon sigh before nodding.
“Unfortunately, it would seem that I do,” he agreed.
“Ah—shit,” Bob muttered, rummaging through his bag.
“What’s wrong?” George looked over his shoulder from where he was unpacking his own bag, and Bob shrugged.
“Forgot a shirt to sleep in. It’ll be fine, I’ll figure something out,”
George hesitated—he wasn’t sure what his heart could handle yet—and swallowed. “You—uh. I’m sure ‘ve got a spare you can borrow,”
“You don’t have to, I can find something else,”
Never mind. Apparently that was the most of the two evils for George’s heart right now. “No! ‘S alright, really, here,” then, after a very brief moment of thought, “might help convince them you steal half my clothes, too,”
“What?” Bob squinted at him, tilting his head just fractionally.
“You told them we share closets earlier, love,” George huffed a laugh and held the shirt out. “Jus’ take it?”
“I—well—fine,” Bob agreed, grabbing the shirt from him. Then he turned his attention to the bed.
The singular, two-person sized bed. The bed the both of them were meant to sleep on, together.
Bob raised an eyebrow as he stared at it. George was fairly sure they were coming up on record for that.
“Is it—alright? I can pull a pillow and some blankets and sleep on the floor,” George offered.
“Look, man, I’m just tired. I don’t fuckin’ care how we sleep as long as I get to,”
George hesitated before nodding. He figured that it would have almost definitely tipped Bob off to something being wrong more if he insisted on sleeping on the floor, considering how often they’d ended up bunking together in the past and the fact that they’d done the exact thing last night, but it felt different now that everyone was assuming that they were involved with each other. He then began internally screaming as Bob started to change (evidently not caring for George’s poor heart as he changed into the shirt George had given him to sleep in), and George could feel his face heating up. He tore his eyes away.
“George? Are you alright?” Bob finally asked, voice full of actual and genuine concern.
“Yeah. It’s just, ah, a bit hot in here, is all,”
Bob just shrugged. “I can turn on the fan?”
“No—’s fine,” He tried to reassure, but Bob shrugged and got on his tiptoes so he could pull the cord to turn the fan on anyways.
George was completely, entirely, and totally fucked.
Especially when Bob gave him a quick, tired grin before slipping under the covers of the bed. Their bed. As in, the bed they were sharing for the entirety of the time they were there.
“‘s comfortable,” Bob commented. “You’re sure you’re alright?”
“Yeah—jus’ give me a second,” George hesitated before finally just biting the very bitter bullet and climbing under with him. He was hyper-aware of how close they were—Bob was on his side facing him, if either of them moved even a fraction their legs would brush together—but Bob seemed entirely unphased by it as he gave George another sleepy smile (though this was seemed to belong more to the ‘smirk’ family than a proper ‘grin’—not that George paid attention to that, mind).
“Like when you were younger?” Bob asked, and they were close enough that George could almost feel every breath he took, which definitely wasn’t weird to notice.
“Hm?”
“Having to share a bed like this. Is it anything like when you were younger?”
“Ah—no,” George shrugged. “More like, one of us is the other way. Feet by heads,”
“Ah.” Bob paused. “Makes for great conversation,”
“Oh, yeah. We should try it sometime,” He hoped Bob caught the joke—though to be honest, he wasn’t sure if he preferred it as they were then or if he wanted Bob to move.
Bob huffed out a small laugh. “Take me on tour, then we can,”
“Is that a proposition, Mister Dylan?” George wiggled his eyebrows. It was almost easy to slip into a joke, like this—it was better to joke than be honest.
“Depends. Will you actually take me up on it?”
“Anything for you, my love,” George teased—at least, partially, also half-hoping that Bob didn’t catch the sincerity in his words. He didn’t seem to as he laughed—proper laughed, mouth pulling into a smile as George’s heart soared for a fraction of a moment. He could be happy with just this, he thought.
“G’night, George,” Bob said, instead of continuing their not-flirting, and when he yawned George had to resist the urge to tell him not to worry about goodnight and to just go to sleep.
“Goodnight,” George answered, watching as Bob got himself settled—still not turning around, though, instead staying so he was facing George—before shifting just fractionally himself so he could adjust the blanket. “Bob?”
But he’d already passed out, stretched out next to George with one of his feet brushing George’s leg.