Chapter Text
Ringo had had enough of George. He was sick of him. Ever since their flat-sharing had turned into cohabitation and then weeks of drunken nights where they were at each other’s necks and rarely in bed together, Ringo had not-so-subtly been looking for ways to get the fuck out.
He considered phoning Elsie and begging her to come get him. He thought of hauling his drums and himself over the balcony and booking it as George slept. He plotted to get so pissed he’d stumble into the council and accidentally buy himself a new flat on the other side of town.
He was gonna do it. He was really gonna do it. There was just one problem.
“RITCHIEEEEEE!” George kicked down their kitchen door, drenched in gin and smoking three ciggies at once. “wHAT ARE YE DOIN’?”
“Makin’ supper, bitch.”
“It better not be yer fuckin’ beans again,” George spat out all of his ciggies on the washrag and lit it on fire.
“An’ what, pray tell, if it is?”
“Then I’ll shag yer brains out right on this floor.”
Reeking clumsily of alc and whatever it was George had just smoked, they finished in time to take the pan off the stove. George scrambled up to comb for clean plates and lay the cutlery so Ringo could mop himself in peace. And at the table they kissed passionately again. Ringo barely stopped the pan from tipping all over George's lap as George pulled him down, hands squeezing either side of his face.
“Ye won’t wait a little?” Ringo joked.
“Can’t,” George rasped. “Love you.”
It was a fairly big problem.
That night Ringo held George as he slept. George held him back tighter; held onto the back of his head and curled around his waist as if to physically prevent his plot of treachery. Ringo was maybe drunk as well, awaiting sleep or a blackout, but neither came. He stared at George’s sleeping face and thought I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry at him over and over.
Around five in the morning he untangled himself. George’s grip had slackened from sinking into proper sleep. Ringo located his slippers in the dark and trudged to the loo, cursing at his cowardice. Last night had been abnormally peaceful, but it was only a matter of time before George gobbed his cigs on Ringo and set him ablaze. Or even worse, himself.
Ringo scoffed as he turned the corner and found an empty bottle of booze right in front of the loo door. He picked it up as he entered, nodding at the little boy who sat on the cover as he set it on the sink—
Ringo stared.
The boy stared back.
Ringo blinked.
Fuckin’ hell was he hungover as shit.
“Uh,” Ringo said. “Hello?”
The boy didn’t respond. He hugged himself and looked down at his stockinged feet. On which rubbing his eyes did Ringo realise was a baby onesie, and the boy barely a year old. Ringo found himself too confused to be terrified. Had George gone on a rampage and kidnapped some poor child? Or had he, and gotten shagged while this poor baby sat locked in the loo??
“Who are you?” Ringo said as gently as his raw throat would allow. “It’s alright, see, I’m…. I’m your friend.”
The boy looked at him for a split second, wide-eyed. His eyes were a very, very familiar shade of brown.
“My name’s Ritchie,” Ringo said, leaning down to the boy. He had an odd feeling that he knew this boy, but also that he didn’t at all. “What’s yours?”
The boy screwed his lips shut. He looked on the verge of tears.
“Oh God, please don’t,” Ringo whispered. “How ‘bout you come down from there and I give you somethin’ to eat? Eat?” He mimed scooping food into his mouth. “D’you get what I’m sayin’?”
The boy sniffled.
“No, don’t!”
“Who the fuck are ye talkin’ to,” George’s voice suddenly rang out. “Hurry up in there, I gotta take a shit—”
The door booted open as Ringo hoisted the baby into his arms. George’s scowl slowly turned into one of disbelief. The poor baby broke into a cry.
“Oh, for Chrissake!” Ringo hitched up the boy and bounced him slightly. “You’ve scared him!”
“Who’s that?” George backed away in horror. “Where’d you get the baby??”
“Excuse me?? Where’d you get the baby???”
“You’re the one who’s holdin’ him!”
“No, I’m the one who found ‘im!” Ringo said indignantly. “You’re the one who trekked out there and pissed yerself and God-knows-what!”
The baby started crying louder.
“What the fuck??? I DIDN’T KIDNAP THAT,” George wagged a finger at the child. “I dunno what you’re yappin’ about.”
Ringo shut the loo door and walked past him to the kitchen. “Oh really.”
“Like you do any better!” George seethed. “You shoulda seen yerself last night! You were fuckin’ ill! Ye could barely stand up in the kitchen!”
“Yeah, well at least I was home.”
George curled his fists and let out a scream. The baby screamed louder. Ringo tried rubbing his head to calm him, and as he pushed the baby’s hair back he uncovered a tiny set of sticky-out ears. Of all the fucking things. He nearly shoved the boy into one of their chairs.
“It’s okay it’s okay,” Ringo said instead. “We’re just gonna feed you some brekkie and send you home to mummy.”
At this the baby stopped.
“M-mummy?”
“Yes, mummy! I’m sure she’s looking everywhere for you,” Ringo said, shooting George a death glare. “D’you know what her name is?”
The boy paused. He shook his head.
“That’s okay! What ‘bout your name? What’s your name? I’m Ritchie, and… that’s Georgie.” he added as George huffily made his way over.
“Georgie,” said the boy.
“Yeah, that’s me,” George groaned.
“No,” the boy shook his head again. “Tha’s me.”
George blinked. It was his turn to groan and rub his eyes.
“So you’re called Georgie too, huh?” Ringo said. “Okay Georgie, don’t ye worry. We’re just gonna make you some breakfast and send you to the bobbies, and they’ll know how to find yer mum and dad.”
“Buh…. bobbies?”
“The police,” Ringo explained, but George suddenly cut in.
“How old are ye, Georgie?”
Georgie raised two chubby fingers. It was then the sun rose and filled the flat and Ringo looked at them both good and proper— and cracked a chuckle.
“What,” said George.
“I just realised he looks like ye,” Ringo gestured to both of them. “He’s got yer ears. And yer damn eyes.”
“So?”
“He looks like a mini-you. And he’s named George.”
“King!” Georgie piped up.
“ ’s Queen now,” George corrected.
“No, King.”
“Yes Georgie, but George the Sixth died in 1952,” said Ringo. “Now his daughter, Elizabeth, is the Queen.”
Georgie blinked. “Huh?”
“El-liz-za-beth Two,” George spelt out, “has been Quh-een for twelve years.”
“No,” Georgie pouted. “King George King.”
“Whatever.”
“Geo! He’s jus’ a baby!”
“Didn’t ye say you were gonna make brekkie?” George said dismissively, heading down to the loo. “Get to it then.”
The drop from their balcony had never looked more appealing. Ringo swallowed his swears and smiled at Georgie, who had lain his little head against Ringo’s chest. He couldn’t be angry at someone who had done no wrong. And little Georgie was an adorable little thing, looking up at him with bright brown eyes.
“So Georgie, what’s your favourite food?”
“......soup.”
“Alright, I’ll see what soups we have. It’s a right cold day, innit?”
Georgie clung to his neck. “No cold here.”
“Yeah?” Ringo hugged him closer. “Okay then, you can say what soup we’ll have. D’you like chicken soup or—”
“WHAT THE FUCK,” George suddenly screamed from the loo. “HOW DID YOU GET IN MY HOUSE?”
Ringo gasped. He quickly turned and set Baby Georgie on the counter when
“What??” came a second voice. “I— this is MY house!”
“No it’s not!”
Ringo froze in his tracks. George and some bloke were arguing their bathroom down. If his hangover and desire to pummel George to pieces weren’t already raging he would’ve just continued searching for the soup. Poor Georgie started whimpering on the counter.
“Georgie, stay here, okay?” Ringo said as he ran back in. He grabbed the saucepan from the sink in case it was a loony that had somehow climbed into their flat. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”
“Ritchieeeeee!” Georgie grabbed at his shoulder. “Ritchie no!”
“I’ll be right back!” Ringo gently prised himself away and ran, the saucepan raised above his head. George stumbled out the loo door and crashed up against the wall, looking as if he’d seen a ghost. Ringo grasped the handle of the pan with both fists and held it back, ready for the intruder.
And then the pan fell to the floor.
George stood in front of him in the loo. But George was also next to his foot, hand over his mouth. Ringo felt his go slack. These Georges could not have looked more different.
George— the one in the loo, was filthy greasy. His hair was tousled and gelled into the quiff that Astrid, bless her, had long banished from their heads. He lugged an amp and a case in one hand, boxes and torn paper bags in the other. His guitar was slung upside-down on his back. He looked like he’d gone through some sort of hell.
But when they fell on Ringo, his eyes were alight.
“Ringo?” he said, and beamed that fanged grin. “D’you remember me?”