Archive of Our Own ^beta

On arrival, George sighs deeply.

Embarrassingly, the whole drive here he's been dreaming about Bob's lips. The lips that many a time he's caressed gently with his finger, the lips that he's bitten, the lips that he's rubbed balm on to help with the dryness and cracking.

The lips he's kissed goodbye and abandoned to go on another tour.

"What is it, George?"

"What?" He blinks, as Ringo's voice snaps him out of his reverie.

"You seem, well, somber. Is something wrong?"

A lot is wrong.

For starters, this is the last place he'd like to be right now. To make matters worse, he can't do anything about it. After all, this is as much a commitment to his friends as to the menagement. Simply put, he's stuck. Then, there's the whole secret relationship part.

A new relationship with someone who really shouldn't be left alone in his vulnerable state.

George actually feels tears coming on. If he keeps all of that inside, he'll burst.

"Do you remember New York, last month? The hotel?" He starts cautiously, unsure if he's ready to say it out loud just yet.

"When you disappeared for a day with Dylan? Sure, how could I forget? Brian was losing it."

Here it goes.

"Yeah. So... We've sort of been together ever since then." He mutters, fidgeting with his guitar case.

"Together like... Like an affair?" Ringo asks, his face unreadable.

"Not an affair. Together together. A proper couple." George lets out.

Ringo looks him up and down, seemingly making sure he's not putting him on.

"You're serious?"

"Is looking at houses serious enough for you, Richie?"

Fuck. That bit could've waited, couldn't it?

"Ay, quite!" Ringo laughs, then stops seeing the earnest look on George's face. "Wait, what? Houses?"

"To move in, together, like."

"That's a bit... quick, isn't it?"

"I suppose." He lowers his head.

He hadn't exactly expected to spill the beans on the very first occasion. As usual, he was betrayed by the emotion written on his face.

Richie stood up from his seat on the opposite side of the room to sit down right next to him instead.

"I remember that night, all right. I had a feeling there was something there, the way you fussed about him." Ringo said softly looking him in the eyes. "Well, does he make you happy?"

"Yes. He really does."

"That's good." Ringo states, nodding his head. "What's the matter then? You look like a beaten dog."

"I can't be bothered with this tour, I really can't. I should be there with him. I mean, you saw him...." George sighs. "I'm just worried, you know. I wish he wasn't alone."

Ringo pats him gently on the back. "I'm sorry, George."

"Have you absolutely lost your mind?"

George jumps at the sound of Paul's voice. There he was, leaning against a door frame with a stern expression.

"You're a Beatle, you do realise that? And he's what, the second biggest act in the world after us? That's a great idea, really. You'd be hard pushed to think of a more disastrous pairing."

"I wasn't talking to you. That's my business, mate." His voice cracked slightly.

"It better stay that way." Paul scoffs. "Sure, why don't you go messing around with some bloke from the royal family next if birds aren't doing it for you anymore."

"Lay off, Paul." Ringo hisses.

George was already storming through the door.

"That was a class act, McCartney. Really. Nomination for prick of the year's secured."

"Richie, this is dangerously stupid. Don't go on pretending you don't know that. And it's a classic Harrison fixation. We won't hear the end of it, till it ends. Oh, the both of them must've been smoking something good."

"You weren't even there that night. He cares about him, I saw that."

"So what! I care about John, do I go around boasting about planning a family life with him?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

"I don't, Richie. Be serious for once."

"He's not a kid anymore. He knows what he wants." Ringo supplies, moving past him and going into the hallway.

"Well, does he know what he'll get? Because it's not gonna be pretty, that's for sure." Paul yells after him.

"What's all that racket, Mr McCartney?" John pokes his head through the door.

○

"George? Are you in there?" Paul knocks at the door incessantly.

"No."

"Look, I'm sorry. I just want to talk to you."

"Well, I don't."

"I wanted to apologise."

"Well, you go right ahead."

"Can you let me in, please?"

No reply.

Paul signs. "I shouldn't have said any of that. The idea of you two, well, it scared me. I only want the best for you. And he... doesn't seem like boyfriend material."

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life." George declares proudly, though his voice is shaky.

"Did you think it through? How exactly is it gonna work?"

"Well, that's just it. We've been trying to work it out. I'm scared, really scared too, you know. I'm terrified because of how much I care about him, how worried I am."

He brings a hand to his cheek and wipes away a stray tear.

"But-"

"I'm not unreasonable, Paul. I know we need to keep it a secret. I wanted to tell the three of you because it's us. I thought I could trust you."

"You can. Of course you can, George. I'm sorry, truly. I was a terrible prick. Even if I had good intentions."

"Did you have a quick session with a shrink or did John finally get his arse here?"

Paul felt his ears turn red. "John's here. We've talked. More accurately, he gave me a piece of his mind. So did Richie. I wish you'd forgive me."

"Alright, get up from your knees."

George opened the door to let Paul in. John came trailing after. They all sat down in a circle on the floor.

Paul extends a hand to him and George shakes it tentatively.

"So, Georgie, you and Mr Zimmerman, huh? Congratulations." John saluted him cheekily. "And pray tell, how is the chap?"

》

"Bobby?"

"Hello?"

"Hi, darling!"

"How you doin'?"

"I'm alright. Well, getting by. Nobody can be all right all of the time right?"

"Now, who said that?" George hears Bob smile through the receiver and feels a wave of warmth all over his body.

"I told 'em, Bobbie. About us, I mean."

"You did?" Bob responds, softspoken. "How did it go?"

"Not terribly. Pretty much like you said it would. I mean, It's uncanny! One could think they're your bandmates, the way you read them like a book."

"I'm simply a great listener, George. You're the source for all my Beatles knowledge." Bob giggles quietly. "Glad to hear it. It'll be easier for you now, you know that."

"I know. Okay, baby, we're playing soon, I don't have much time. Just needed to hear your voice."

"At your service, darlin'."

"Before I go, did you eat today?" George asks before he can bite his tongue.

"Don't worry about me."

"You know that's like asking me not to breathe. We promised each other honesty, right? Well?"

"Not really." Bob admits in a small voice. "I feel weird. I will make myself some sandwiches after the call. I promise."

He's trying. Not evading the question, not lying about being fine. With the physical distance between them, that's the best George can hope for.

"Okay, good, that's good. I love you."

"I love you. Riff all over them, darlin'."

George hangs up the phone and looks up to meet Ringo's eyes who sends him a small smile.

"Ready, George?"

》

Bobbie,

I'm writing because I couldn't reach you on the phone and I'm already at my wits end. Baby, I wish you would pick up my calls, this tour is hard enough. I can't get through it without hearing your voice. Or just your breath, if you don't feel like talking, that's okay too. I just need to know you're there.
Yesterday's show was good, I could almost hear myself. Almost being the key word. I substituted the "friend" to "man" in the chorus of the If I needed someone tune. Just a silly thing. Suppose it doesn't make much sense, because that song is not even close to romantic and as well you know, I actually need you. Speaking of romantic, I wrote a little something this morning. Can't wait to sing it to you. Anyway, all my best love songs are predetermined to remain unsang. At least to the general public, because, and you won't be able to believe it, the Beatles are done touring! I smiled so wide you'd never guess there were death threats involved in the making of that decision. I should have led with that bombshell, shouldn't I? Let's say I was building suspense. We'll still be recording but once these shows are over, I can actually come home and be with you. Richie is watching me write this, he's been really helpful. Calming me down and all that. John says hi and also wants to know how are you not sick of me yet, and Paul asked me to ask you about something, but I forgot what it was. Maybe you'll know anyway. It couldn't have been that important. Sorry, I keep rambling but I just gotta keep my hands busy. I miss you terribly and I'll be back soon.
Please take care of yourself. Have you eaten all of the cake already? I hope so, as it's been almost a week and I'm afraid it might go bad soon.

Love, G

P.S I wrote down the hotel we'll be staying tomorrow, call me there or I will. (I will either way.)

P.S II I love you a lot.

P.S III Did you get the keys to the place yet?

》

Joan has been walking around in a haze ever since her eyes came across those dreadful words.

The headline said: "Dylan hurt in Cycle Mishap!"

Little is known about his condition, less still about his whereabouts. Not that the press could be trusted, anyway.

It took her two days to get a hold of Robbie and longer still to convince him to tell her anything of substance. Reluctantly, he gave her the adress. He didn't seem to know anything more than the papers, or he simply didn't want to be the one to break the news to her. So here she was, about to knock on the front door of a big country house in the middle of nowhere. It's here that she would find the answer, whatever it was.

She closes her eyes, lifts her trembling hand and starts pounding on the door, words of a prayer filling the air.

A whole eternity seems to past before a croak breaks her out of her trance.

"G-george?"

"Come on in, Joan."

She nods and walks in slowly, wide-eyed.

She takes in the view of the house, a home really, with paintings all over the walls, the interiors warm and cosy. All sorts of trinkets, books, figurines and pieces fill the place, seemingly coming from many different worlds yet oddly fitting together. A voice she unmistakenly recognises as Nina Simone floats in from the other room. There's a nondescript sweet aroma lingering in the air. In the middle of all this, there's George Harrison, fitting in like a glove in his little apron. Not a bit out of place.

"Will you have a cuppa? Or, I can make fresh coffee if you'd prefer?"

"Whatever you're having." She chockes out.

"Two teas with milk then, coming right up! I got a custard pie in the oven, but it'll be a while, i'm afraid"

She looks at him a bit taken aback, not yet having found her footing. It is only when the whistle of a kettle reacher her that she finds enough nerve to make her tongue form the question she flew out here to ask.

"Where is he, George?"

"He's fine. Well... He's not been injured, that I can say with certainty. I assume that's what brings you here?" He asks in a calm manner.

"Yes." She breaths out. "But...I don't understand-"

"There was no motorcycle accident"

"Then, where is he? And why-"

"Let's sit down and have a proper conversation, alright?" George brings the tea tray on to the living room and gestures for her to follow him there.

It's then that her eyes land on a photograph showcased proudly in a seemingly handmade frame composed of tree bark and dried flowers. In the picture, there's Bob and George caught in a sweet embrace, large smiles on their faces, a twinkle in their eyes.

And Bob... Bob looks different. Content. Relaxed.

She almost didn't recognise him.

There's no denying the photo shows a happy couple.

Oh.

"Do you... do you live here together?"

"Yes." George smiles softly. "We bought the house in spring. Moved here soon after the tours were over. Kept it under wraps, only a few closest people know about it. Obviously, that includes you too, now."

"I didn't mean to pry, so I'm sorry if-"

"I know Bob trusts you, so I do too. Even though the two of you didn't exactly leave things off on good terms, since you're here, you must still care about him."

She nodds. Books could be written about her relationship with Bob, but that's not the time or the place to talk about it. The bottomline is, he'll always be important to her.

"It's a beautiful space." She offers, returning the smile.

"It needs more work, but it's slowly coming together. We're getting chickens soon. Maybe a couple of horses, too, eventually." He frowns slightly. "I'm getting ahead of myself. I suppose it's because I don't exactly know where to start with the past. You were there for more than I, that's for sure. You saw it, what he was heading towards, didn't you?"

She nodds again. A part of her feels guilty for not being there. Still, she knows it was Bob who made his choice and put enough distance between them that she could no longer reach him. It's not like she hasn't tried.

"Well, it kept getting worse on that wretched tour. The pressure, the drugs, all of it. Until everything came crushing down. He broke. It was awful, terrifying. I scooped the pieces up and promised to keep licking his wounds for as long as it was needed. I was by his side, did all I could do. Though as you can probably guess, things don't exactly work like that."

"Now I know that they don't."

"No." He smiles sadly. "Bob knows it too. So, we had the tough conversation. He's in rehab now. A 14-day-long programme for starters. We'll see where to go from there. He'll consider more extensive treatment options if it turns out he needs that."

"That's a big step."

"It is. I'm really proud of him."

"Thank you for trusting me with the truth."

"Yeah, well, the motorcycle story was supposed to get him out of contracts and touring, not give a big scare to his close friends. Truthfully, in the moment of making that decision he didn't feel like he had many of those left, you know."

She bites her lip. So many things went wrong.

"It's really such a relief that he's okay. I need him to know that. George, can I leave a letter with you? So he'll read it when he gets back. A solid proof."

"Oh Joan, of course you can, but frankly, I'd rather you stayed. You came all this way. He'll be back in a couple of days. This is a big house and we've got a completely furnished guest room upstairs.

"Oh no, George, I couldn't possibly do that."

"Please think about it. The scenery is beautiful, you could treat it like a holiday. You could write here, walk around, play my guitar. I think you'll find it a quite inspiring environment, I sure do. I'll cook and clean, room service and all." He sighs. "I could really use some company. I'm losing my mind all alone in here, worrying about him all day long. It's like I'm missing a limb. I did more renovating yesterday than we both did together in the whole month of June."

"Well, the offer does sound tempting. It's just-"

"Is it the fact that we're a couple? I'd understand if it made you uncomfortable..."

"No, George, it's not that. Not at all." She shakes her head. "But... I don't know if he'd actually want to see me, that's all."

George looks into her eyes with an intensity that almost sends shivers down her spine.

"You came here because you believed he had a brush with death. And he did. A wake up call, isn't it? It's not too late yet."

"You're right."

"Besides, I'd rather not eat another entire custard pie by myself."

"Was about to ask you about that. Didn't know you were a pattiserie chef?"

"In training." George smiles, smug. "Bob says practise makes perfect."

"Oh, I'm sure." She laughs.

》

The days pass slowly and mellow. They settle into a nice routine, George working in the garden or the kitchen while Joan takes to long walks and writing. In the evenings, they take tea on the porch, watching the setting sun with a soft acompaniament of an acoustic guitar or two. They don't talk much, but it's as comfortable a silence as she'd ever shared with someone. It makes perfect sense. After all, they're both caught in a bizzare waiting game, not quite together but not apart either.

Somewhere in the idyllic scenery, between poems, home grown tomatoes and rhubarb pie Joan finds her mind drifting to places it hasn't ventured into for a while.

Ever since she arrived here, Kimmie has been on her mind again.

Seeing the almost perfect plaid pie crust brings back the memory of the matching dresses Kimmie sewn for them to wear side by side.

Bob was there, that day. He noticed. Later, when they were alone behind the stage, he asked if Kimmie was her girl. The way he said it so casually, curious, yet not mocking.

In answering, she verbalised it for the very first time.

When George encourages her to sing a song, she settles on Tomorrow Is A Long Time.

Back when she first heard it, it made her think of her girl. She decided to sing it, sing it without changing the pronouns. She brought it up with Bob. Not that she needed his permission. If anything, that was the default version, the song remained unchanged. Still, having his approval made her heart beat a little faster.

Later, when they broke things off with Kimmie, Bob was there for her to lean on. She felt comfortable talking to him about her heartbreak in a way that she couldn't to her sister, or anyone else, really.

In a way, his acceptance endeared him to her even more than his songs have.

Maybe that's not completely true. Maybe she should finally make peace with the fact that in the end, the sheer magnetic force of the music was what was pulling them together. She could never truly look past that. That's where the grudges came from, where the expectations and the imminent dissapointment was rooted. His words lingered in the air between their breaths, made out the very fabric of their relationship. She saw the genius, the prophet, the voice of the generation. He started to resent her for it. She started to resent him for not living up to it. No more to say about that.

No, that's not true either. It's not that simple, that clear-cut an answer.

She did love him. His silliness, his little quirks, his neediness. How completely singular he was, one of a kind. Erratic, messy, skittish. Commanding, charismatic, confident. He drove her crazy, fascinated her, enthralled her. His intense gaze would render her helpless. A few words could leave her speechless. On another day, it was him who would fall apart in her arms, fragile and small, seeking comfort in her tenderness wordlessly, and finding it there in abundance.

He never explained himself to her. He never asked that of her, either.

There was real love there, once. Perhaps, there still is. A different kind, yes, but that's probably for the better.

》
"George?" Joan asks softly.
As usual, they've been sitting outside and watching the ever-changing evening sky.

"Hmm?" George lifts his eyes from his notebook.

"Why the motorcycle?"

Silence. Then, a quiet reply.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know, it was just on my mind. Wondering who came up with that."

George gulps. As his face changes, she realises she said something wrong. Their eyes meet and suddenly she wishes she'd never asked.

"The sounds of the engine woke me up in the wee hours of the morning, it was still dark outside. I went outside and saw him on his motorcycle, but he... he was barely there. I came closer but it was like he didn't see me at all. He was so spaced out. I don't know what he took or... Or what
what he was going to do. If not for my sleeping problems.... God."

He cries. She just holds him, rocking him gently and feeling tears coming down her own face too.

She sings him to sleep that night. A selection of Hank Williams and Johnny Cash as well as some traditional stuff. She opts for slower arrangements, not unlike a lullaby. Absentmindedly, she settles on the tunes that she recalls were Bob's favourites, in their day anyway. She slips out of his room once she's sure he's sound asleep.

》

She hears the car pull out. Through the attic window she catches sight of a silhouette exit the car and throw himself at George, sinking into his arms. From her vantage point, she sees the way Bob's hands cling tightly onto his shirt, creasing it an ungodly amount. Then, Bob is kissing him passionately, hungrily.

She feels her own mouth stretch out in a big smile. Good thing that she stayed inside and they could've had that moment together.

Then, reality of the situation hits her. Here he is. Returning to his beloved partner, finding solace in his embrace. Blissfuly unaware of his past lurking in the privacy of his home.

For a brief moment, she considers staying in the room forever. She's on the verge of panic when she hears footsteps on the stairs and a subsequent knock on the door.

Numbly, her hand opens the door. Here it goes.

"Hi." She sends him a shy smile.

"Joanie! What are you doing here?" He laughs in surprise.

Oh how she's missed that sound.

"Wanted too see you, it's been too long."

"Since George mentioned a visitor, I've been dreading a band reunion. Seems like I dodged that bullet, unless? In any case, cat's out of the bag. You must be all caught up now, I assume?"

She takes notice of George's arm wrapped protectively around him. He winks at her.

"Pretty much, yes. Oh, Bobby, I'm so happy for you. You really look great."

"That's all George's baking. A rowdy Beatle like him, who knew he had it in him?"

"She's been a guest of our charming establishment for a couple days and she says the service is impeccable, isn't that right?"

"It absolutely is. I never before experienced such luxury. You should really cherish him Bob, you know."

"Oh, I do, believe me."

》

"It shouldn't have ended like that." Bob breaks the silence between them.

in front of them there's a charming path surrounded by golden fields of wheat and rye. He stops and picks up a blade, fiddling with it.

"No." She eyes him. "It doesn't have to. It's not really the end yet, right? We're talking now." She smiles at him coyly.

"I suppose." He smiles back as he continues gathering grain.

"That for me?" She teases.

"Will be, if you help me. Thought it would look nice on the dinner table, outside. A centerpiece. What do you think?" He turns to her, putting one behind her ear.

"It sure will. It's a big table, so we need a big, luscious boquet."

Bob puts some of what he's already picked in the pocket of his jeans and they dive in, side by side.

Joan watches her hands disappear amongst the lush grain.

"Something has ended, Joan." Bob states suddenly. "I haven't been writing. Haven't picked up a guitar in months. I don't know if I've got anything else to offer to this world. That's fine with me, I think."

"You don't owe anybody anything, Bob. I understand that now."

"He is my priority now. Our life together is what matters to me. What if I never performed again?"

"I know you'll do what you believe is right for you. As long as you're happy, that's the important part."

He nodds.

"The paintings in the house, are their yours?"

"A couple of them, yeah. The psychodelic abstraction frenzy on the living room walls, well, that was both of us. We've been doing everything ourselves, you know, seems safer that way. No cats snooping around. One thing let to another and the paint job was assigned to me. A simple task, add a layer of white on. Put my overalls on, my gloves on, a Woody Gurthie record on for moral support. Suffice to say, I screwed it up. Next thing I know, George drags in seven buckets of paint, a whole color spectrum. That's even better, we'll make something special, he said. Hey, it turned out pretty good. The fumes must've helped."

Joan laughs. "I remember you used to always say you wanted to try painting, but never did."

"Yeah. Now seems like a good time."

"I'm really glad you're here, Bobby. I was so scared."

"I'm sorry."

"No, don't apologise."

There's sentence she never thought she'd say to him.

She means it, too. There's no need for it now.

With an armful of rye, she feels lighter and more peaceful than in a long time. Now, barefoot, in her loose white dress and sunlight in her hair a strange sense of serenity comes over her. Never before has she felt like the Madonna nickname Bob has favoured for her was warranted. Today, she believes she finally understands what he meant by it. With love and grace in her gaze, her caring eyes meet his.

There he stands with his windswept hair, linen shirt and worn down jeans. So different from the boy she first got to know. A whole world away from the man she drifted away from not that long ago.

"It's so beautiful, Bobby."

"Will you visit sometimes? I miss you."

The second sentence is almost lost to the wind. She hears it, though.

"Of course I will. I missed you so much."

》

"Isn't it just like a royal wave from the Buckingham Palace balcony?" George quips.

They are standing in their driveway side by side, waving and grinning at Joan's cab which gets smaller and smaller.

"Is it? I thought they all hated each other's guts. And also were inbred."

"God, I missed you." George exhales, facing his partner, his hand stroking his hair. "I love you. I can't wait to have you all to myself now."

Bob smiles softly. "I love you. Thank you for being so wonderful."

There's so much George wants to say, ask about, comment on. And he will. They've got time for all that. Now, however, he just wants to hold his beloved close to him. Enclose him in a gentle bubble of care. Retrace all his favourite trails on his body and in his mind. Then, fall into a sweet slumber.

He places a feather light kiss on his lips.

"Let's go home."

"Close your eyes, close the door."