Chapter Text
Mal hated feeling helpless. It had been lurking in him at a low level ever since the day before, when George walked out and it had worsened listening to him tell this in the car park. Once he’d brought him back to his flat and settled him in the guest room, it had receded a bit.
But after a night listening to George pace back and forth in the guest room, never settling, and now, seeing the rest of the boys thunderstruck by it all, it was back in full force.
All eyes were on George, sitting on the floor and breathing jaggedly after his outburst. He was practically curled up into a ball and was refusing to meet any of their gazes.
The room, just about built to fit four people somewhat comfortably, felt smaller than ever.
Mal surreptitiously caught Yoko’s eye. She was as shell-shocked looking as the rest of them, poor lass. He inclined his head towards the door.
Should we go? This should be just the four of them, shouldn’t it? He tried to get across with just his eyes.
She looked torn, then inclined her own head down towards the couch where her hand was being squeezed tightly by John’s. Then she shook her head minutely.
Whatever about what she might have wanted, she couldn’t leave John. Fair enough.
“That sounds horrible, lad,” Ringo eventually said, breaking the silence, but so soft and careful.
“D’you actually believe me, so?” George didn’t look up, but straightened slightly.
“Whether I do or I don’t, it still sounds horrible for you,” Ringo answered straightforwardly. “But, yeah. I do believe you. You’re me mate, aren’t you? Have to believe you, don’t I?”
Ringo slowly slipped down off the armchair and cautiously shuffled over to George. He sat down on the floor next to him and carefully drew him into his side.
“Georgie,” he murmured. “It’s alright, you’re alright.”
It seemed for a second like he hadn’t heard him, but then George shuddered and leaned into him.
“I’m sorry.”
His voice was very small and if Mal closed his eyes, he’d nearly have sworn that it had come from one of his kids.
“It’s alright,” Ringo repeated and squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t fret, now. Don’t upset yourself.”
“I shouldn’t have lost it like that.” George still wouldn’t look at any of them. “I shouldn’t have said any- God. I’m sorry.”
Not for the first time that day, for a brief moment, Mal entertained the hope that George hadn’t meant any of what he’d said. That any minute, he’d raise his head, give them that crooked grin of his and ask why they all looked so bloody miserable.
It was only a brief moment, though.
“After all, I’m meant to be the grown-up here, aren’t I?” George asked with a bleak chuckle. “Should have a better handle on meself. Set a good example to you youngsters an’ all that.”
Mal saw, rather than heard, John mutter “Youngster?” under his breath. He seemed to have recovered somewhat from what George had said about-
Well. What George had said.
George had managed to calm himself somewhat and took a shaky breath. “So, yeah. That’s the story. Yesterday, it all just got to me, I s’pose. I just thought there was going to be some meaning to it. That I might be able to change things, but I can’t. And what’s the fuckin’ point of all this if I can’t change anythin’?”
No-one seemed to have an answer for that.
“Look, lads, maybe that’s enough for today,” Mal appealed
Ringo sent him a grateful look. “He’s not wrong. We can come back tomorrow, or the day after and talk again with clear heads. There’s no rush, right, George?”
George didn’t answer, just continued looking down at his fidgeting hands. But he had tensed at the question.
“Was I sick, then?” John asked abruptly.
George’s head shot up. “What?”
“You said you were sick. That’s why you died. Was that what happened me, too?” John clarified. If you didn’t know him well, you’d have sworn John was furious, but Mal could hear the fear that lay underneath it all.
“John, don’t!” hissed Paul.
“Anyone who’s still breathing doesn’t get to interrupt, Macca. This is between the two dead men,” John snapped back. “Now, come on then. Tell me. I can handle it.”
George looked like he wanted to argue, then slumped again against Ringo.
“Right fuckin’ mess,” he muttered to himself. “Well done, Harrison. Making everything worse since 1943. Top marks.”
He looked up then at John and Mal wished he hadn’t. He never wanted to see that look on George’s face, on anyone’s face, ever again.
“Someone- someone attacked you. Killed you, Johnny. Around ten years from now. I’m-”
“Don’t you dare say sorry again,” John interrupted savagely.
George shrunk in on himself. “See? Made it worse.”
Stop it, Mal wanted to say. Just stop all of this. It’s not fair.
He didn’t know who to say it to, but he just wanted it all to stop.