A/N: Over 100 reviews reached for this story so far! I honestly, couldn't be more surprised and amazed at the same time! Thank you ALL sooo much! You've been just WONDERful... FANtastic! I hope in return that I have what it takes to keep this story captivating! :))
Well here it is folks, chapter 20 FINALLY... Nothing to get hung about really BUT... Hope you enjoy it just the same :)). Things are about to get very interesting... if I can help it. ;)
Following the rather drawn-out standard procedure that would normally adhere to typical hotel evacuation, three-fourths of the Beatles plus one very antsy Eppy eventually found themselves situated within a limo, ready to set course for an entirely new destination. It had been a particularly trying morning already; filled to the brim with concerns, anxieties, frustrations, and moodiness. And as a result, each and every one of them were more than eager, desperate even, to leave it all behind in hopes that they'd be able to, before long, embrace something else. Something completely whole and refreshingly new. Something they could hopefully find in the mysterious state of New Jersey. Had it been up to Eppy or even Paul, they'd have left quite some time ago. But currently, they waited on George who'd five minutes ago, announced his need of the loo. Eppy couldn't be any more displeased over the inconvenience of such timing but there had been nothing that he'd been able to do or say that would openly have convinced the adamant lead guitarist otherwise.
Seemingly endless minutes had ticked down since… and he was still nowhere to be seen. The excess amount of waiting around was all but doing the pending day justice. It granted each Beatle and Eppy more time to think and overanalyze everything than they could bear. Such consequences were doing all but upping the already questionable levels of enthusiasm surrounding the group as a whole.
Ringo seemed to be the least bit outwardly bothered by anything and everything this morning. As a result, this current predicament ran off him like water cast from the steepest roof. Both Paul and Eppy proved to be the most anxious of all, their eyes practically glued to their watches. They gave off the essence of stallions raring to go, eager for a good run. John, who'd been strangely quiet for a good portion of the morning, was growing noticeably restless and fidgety all the time. The growing look of agitation within his haggard eyes said it all.
"Nine minutes since 'e's been inside now…" Ringo announced presently.
John shifted in his seat, looking beyond uncomfortable. "Well, if this is going to rival Paul's longest trip to the loo, then I'm going back in meself to catch a kip…" he muttered sulkily, "I feel like shit still…"
"Stay put, Lennon." Eppy ordered, "You don't need to complicate things any more than they already are. We've told ye' already that yer perfectly free to catch a kip in 'ere should ye' feel the need."
"It's official," Ringo proclaimed, taking a moment to glance briefly at the watch hugging his wrist, "Geo's officially been at the loo fer longer than ten minutes."
John found himself rolling his eyes as he stared out the window he had eased himself up against, "Well, isn't this strangely familiar…" he mumbled sardonically, turning casually to offer a glare in Paul's direction.
The bassist, seated beside him, refused to meet his gaze.
Ringo laughed. "He's gonna beat yer longest record at this point, Macca. Remember that time we all thought y'fell in?"
"S'not me fault they were out of toilet paper!" Paul responded indignantly, turning his entire face slightly away from any searching eyes in attempt to mask a blush rapidly spreading across the apples of his cheeks.
"What do ye' suppose he's doing in there, anyway?" Ringo wondered aloud, allowing 'perfect' Paul the change of subject he knew he was desperately craving.
"Wanking off to one of Paul's photographs, no doubt," John responded offhandedly, a wicked grin recently infrequent in nature spreading across his face.
Paul arched an eyebrow at him portraying forth his lack of amusement, "Like how Eppy does with all of yers?" he retorted, returning his comment with a smug look of his own.
"How would ye' know who Eppy wanks off to?" Ringo asked, turning to Paul with impossibly wide eyes of interest, "Are ye' usually present at these wanking sessions of his?"
"Present?" John scoffed, "'E probably sits in and lends a hand…" He turned to face Eppy finally with an impish smirk, "Isn't that right, Brian?"
"Aren't you feeling ill, Lennon?" Eppy grumbled, turning to face him with a glower of pronounced displeasure.
John blinked, looking momentarily caught off guard. "Why? Did ye' hear otherwise…?" he responded derisively.
"Could 'ave fooled me with the way yer suddenly acting," Eppy snapped. He sat back with arms sternly crossed against his chest, half expecting a retaliation of some sort, but John looked away, suddenly seeming distracted.
"Here they come!" Ringo announced, somewhat cheerfully, "Finally!"
"What?" Paul ripped his gaze away from John where it had momentarily landed following the musician's sudden and unexpected change of demeanor.
Paul followed Ringo's gaze. Sure enough the lead guitarist was approaching them, trailing several feet behind Mal.
"Well he's not very urgent about it," Eppy commented. He impatiently moved to roll down the window nearest Ringo, "Let's go, Geo!" he called urgently, "Chivvy along! We're running late!"
The guitarist obediently quickened his pace but it seemed to Paul that he didn't really want to. He rather looked a bit pale, actually… Perhaps, it was the lighting.
"Well, this is it, lads! Say your final goodbyes!" Mal announced as he entered the limo cabin lastly behind George. "Are we all ready to go?"
"Been ready…" John grumbled, lethargically turning his head to glare wordlessly in Harrison's direction as he squeezed into the open slot beside Ringo claiming for himself, the remaining window seat the limo had to offer.
Eppy glanced nervously at his watch as Mal settled in beside him on the row of seating opposite the Beatles, "We've better hurry. We're running late as is!"
John lazily turned his gaze on Eppy with significantly decreased interest, a blatant swing in character from what he was just earlier showing, "Late?" he found himself scoffing, "Who are ye', the white rabbit from… from…" He frowned finding he couldn't entirely remember what it was he was beginning to get at. "…What's that book called?" he dully asked no one in particular, a significant sluggish lack of grace presenting itself with his inquiry.
Paul arched an eyebrow at him, "'Alice in Wonderland'?"
John greeted him with a blank stare. "No… that's not it…"
"Well, which white rabbit are you talking about?" Ringo inquired.
"The one from… the one from… Alice… in… Wonderland…" John faltered, slowly coming to the obvious realization himself. He… may as well have just crowned himself dunce of the entire United Kingdom… the world even… He blinked blearily, finding he was having a bit of trouble processing such information.
"All right, John?" Ringo found himself asking in a bit of surprise mixed with concern, "Y'know that's one of yer favorite book, right?"
Desperate to combat his obvious deterioration in wit, John flat-out ignored him; his attention, even more decreased this time around, turning back to Eppy, "What are ye' the… the…" Fuck…What was it again? Bloody fucking hell… "…Never mind…" he grumbled, turning to look away in an air of disenchantment. So much for the speedy quip he was certain he'd had within his grasp.
"Ye' all right?" Paul asked taking Ringo's initial question into his own hands, concern similar to Ringo's beginning to eat, once again, at the back of his mind.
John turned to him with fleeting jaded eyes. "Peachy."
"Well, we're off, then." Eppy announced, his voice seeming to originate from somewhere in the distance.
As the limo pulled away from the hotel grounds, John found himself casting his tired gaze out the window from the seat he'd been granted, courtesy of McCartney. The bassist had insisted on him having the window seat while insisting that a scenery-deprived George would be the one to have the other, "Plenty of space for you to catch a kip if ye' should feel the need. Ritch and I, we'll manage," he'd stated, "We're the picture of health, y'know!"
John had scowled at him, "Lucky you," he'd muttered dismissively before turning away. There it had been. Proof that the bassist thought he'd been doing him a bloody favor. John hated favors he didn't beforehand agree to. Especially favors that dared to, as a result, portray any signs of weaknesses he may or may not be battling in strictly black and white.
"You'd be wise to take advantage of this generosity-inspired opportunity, John," Eppy had put in, "Once we really get going, aside from the plane ride, chances to sleep will be limited."
Joy… John had thought… When had he managed to hear that before? Once again, everyone seemed to think they knew what was best for him yet no one had a clue where his problems even began… He had turned to Paul who'd returned his glance with ample amounts of concern. His eyes had been pleading as though willing him inwardly to try and better his body somehow, as though he had the key for such far-fetched phenomenon. Bloody ridiculous, really. If John had this 'key', so to speak, he most certainly wouldn't be wasting his time feeling as though he was rapidly approaching his deathbed. "Y'look like shit, y'git," Paul had uncharacteristically resorted to saying, "M'not sure how our New Jersey fans would take to yer newly acquired look."
"Yeah?" John had felt like responding, "Well, m'not sure how yer precious fans would respond to yer newly acquired broken face!" He hadn't bothered to grace him with this retort or any retort for that matter. Mainly because he hadn't felt like it, really. It didn't matter. None of it did. It wouldn't change things. It wouldn't change the present and it most certainly wouldn't change yesterday. As much as he hated to come to terms with it, he felt even more out-of-place in his own body than even yesterday. Considerably lost… Ask him who John Lennon was and he'd simply falter… Stumble over the answer as though he was an imposter. His fevered, aching mind just didn't have what it took to keep above water any longer it felt like. He was drowning… Drowning within his own body… Possibly sicker than he'd initially realized… Perhaps dyin— He stopped himself right them before he could even begin to complete such a repulsive thought. He was only sick… No need to jump to conclusions, no matter how predominant they seemed to make themselves within the confines of his twisted mind… No matter what the stupid doctors said he had— once they were able to pull their heads out from their arses long enough to figure it out. Maybe he'd just sit back and be optimistic for once… After so many years of hanging with Paul… something had to have rubbed off.
John actually smiled as he considered such a thing… But as usual for him, pessimism was right around the corner. How could he bloody well even begin to compare himself to the likes of Paul what with the bassist's optimistic abilities being so painfully unnatural? He wasn't Paul… He was John Lennon. John Lennon, whose health and sanity seemed to be evaporating at a disquieting pace. John Lennon, who couldn't even begin to figure out what was going wrong with himself enough to render himself even the least bit functional in bringing the mystery to its needed end… If that wasn't nerve-wracking, he didn't know what was… but then again, the doctors couldn't bloody well come to terms with his situation either, and clearly they didn't seem to be losing any sleep over it…
'None of it really matters, Lennon,' his mind suddenly inserted itself, 'Life's gonna do what life's gonna do and regardless of who or what you are, you can't do a thing to change it. You of all thick-headed gits should know that… Sure you'd like to know what's going on with you but why the hell should you be granted any insight? You might be famous but… yer still only John Lennon… The same fucked up mess ye' were well before anyone even gave a shit about who you were… Life's gonna do what life's gonna do…' John cringed at the latter of stinging words originating from his insides… 'Yeah, Lennon, 'cause life's been so pleasant to you, thus far…' He sucked in a deep breath and choked on it, succumbing instantly to a rather violent coughing fit.
"Jesus Christ!" someone exclaimed seemingly without purpose. He felt a seemingly irrelevant hand slapping him across the back.
"John! Ye' all right?"
The fit regulated itself within a matter of several more seconds and John cleared his throat indifferently as though he hadn't just nearly hacked up a lung.
Life's gonna do what life's gonna do… regardless of who or what you are… Yer still only John Lennon… The same fucked up mess ye' were well before anyone even gave a shit about who you were…
The rhythm guitarist shook his head absently somehow managing to remain oblivious to the concerned eyes scattered about him. 'It's a blatant lose-lose situation then,' he tiredly concluded. Proof that he couldn't change much if anything at all. Life's gonna do what life's gonna do. Regardless of who or what you are, you can't do a thing to change it. Life certainly hadn't waited around when expelling from it so many of his loved ones… Yer still only John Lennon… Why the hell should you be granted any insight?
This not knowing thing— it was bloody terrifying… And with all that he'd been through so far, he wasn't ever easily this terrified. Sure he was often subject to irrational insecurities… No one was ever completely exempt from such feelings… This, however, was a different kind of fear riding him … Something almost foreign. Something he couldn't even begin to fathom. It was a desolate sort of fear… A fear that he'd only experienced twice before and hoped from then on he'd never experience again. Two major life-changing occurrences had yielded to such incomprehensible feelings. The death of his mum and the death of Stu. He shivered involuntarily at the comparison. So much death… Death was… Life was…
"John!" Paul barked, his abrupt exclamation finally startling the rhythm guitarist from finishing the remaining tail end of his aimless thoughts. He found himself jumping again as an additional elbow met his left arm courtesy of Ringo. "What?" he questioned, almost testily.
"All right?" Ringo asked, his aquamarine eyes soft with worry.
"I'm fine!" John found himself hastily snapping, "Christ…a bloke comes home from an overnight stay at the hospital and everyone thinks he's about to die or something!"
"What does that have to do with anything?" Paul demanded, bewildered by the unexpected origin of John's sudden apprehensions.
"It… I…" John trailed off, suddenly unsure as to why he'd readily broadcasted such a thing.
"No one said anything of the sort!" Eppy followed up.
"Y'don't 'ave to! I'm sick of the bullshit and the lot of ye' treating me like I'm about to bloody break in 'alf!" John snapped, his barricaded frustrations bursting forth with uncontrollable force.
"Like it or not, we're still concerned for your well-being," Paul dryly confirmed, "Bless our human hearts."
"Well, y'can cut the crap and call off the bloodhounds…" John mumbled, cleverly weaseling himself away from the bassist's recently acquired troubled gaze, "I'll be all right…"
Paul's gaze hardened as he took in Lennon's guarded face as he proceeded to turn it away from him. Something was off with him… and not just due to illness…
"Very well," Eppy chose to wave away matters for the time being.
John longed to be anywhere else by this point. It didn't matter where. Just so long as he was far away. Far from such distorted feelings… far away from this 'self', he'd transformed into it without his own consent. A large part of him longed for the comfort of Cynthia's arms while a seemingly separate and detached younger part of him; a part of him he'd normally kept permanently locked within the confines of his safe-like mind, ached for his mum. She'd hold him just as she used to whenever he was sick and stroke his hair and whisper the uplifting words he presently yearned. "I'll let nothing happen to you, darling," she'd coo over and over again until he found himself capable of truly believing. Her words- John used to think there was magic hidden in them. Upon hearing them, he'd feel better almost instantly. Whatever ailments he had would simply vanish… or would seem to vanish as she meanwhile rocked him to sleep. Little had he known that such words would eventually fail to possess true value. After all, life had been good then… His mum had been good… Until the one fateful day that she'd changed. His father walked out on them shortly after and before John had entirely known what was happening, his life ceased to be the same. It had changed completely from there on out… And he'd changed permanently as a result… and not for the better… Such opinions weren't even open for debate. He was a mess… a right mess… Still the fucked up mess he was well before anyone gave a shit about who he was. Still only John Lennon. And to add fuel to the literal fire already burning within him, his bloody head just wouldn't stop hurting even long enough to grant him a minute's worth of much-needed peace of mind… Perhaps it was due to the unavoidable, disabling, bitter negativity that had been in constant rule of his increasingly dilapidated mindset. Perhaps his body was simply trying to get him to off himself for whatever reasons. But aspirin was no longer helping… even a little bit.
No longer was the pain even reminiscent of the sickening painful throb he'd been released from the hospital with. That had been near bliss in comparison to the heavier just as sickening—if not more so, unforgiving thudding that had taken up recent residence within his skull… A constant thud, thud, thud emulating the repeated, merciless blow of a blunt object to the back of his head… He almost wished there was a blunt object involved as twisted as that was… Perhaps it would cast him from the stubborn grips of consciousness and as result, he most likely wouldn't be aware of the recently restored equally painful chills choosing this very moment in time to rattle his bones…'Just try and sleep, Lennon…' he mentally pleaded of himself, 'even if you can't shake the bloody chills and headache … you could at least in turn make yourself somewhat useful…and somewhat more sane…' Hopefully. Right at that very second, John felt as though his mentality, what was left of it that was, was completely and permanently vanishing at an alarming rate. He didn't feel right… Aside from the sickness endlessly plaguing him, he felt completely out of sync… out of order… Really… just didn't feel right… Lennon heaved a defeated sigh and allowed for his eyes to close.
"John, what is it?" someone blatantly demanded, almost too suddenly.
Was he dreaming already? Of course not. He'd only just closed his eyes. John cracked an eye open and gazed indolently in the direction of the spoken voice. Paul stared back at him, genuine concern holding his dark eyes captive. "What is what?" he mumbled incoherently.
"Yer shaking an awful lot!"
"Am I?" John tiredly lifted a hand and gaze at it, his mind registering the increased presence of tremors racing though it, "Fucking cold…" he mumbled sleepily.
"Check his temperature…" Mal gently suggested from across the limo, his apprehensive eyes fixated on Lennon's face.
John closed his eyes as Paul settled the back of his hand against his mate's forehead. "Christ, yer a bit hot, John…" he reported worriedly, a frown like a reverse rainbow crossing his face.
Both Eppy and Mal's mouths twisted simultaneously in frowns of equal lengths. "Well, let him sleep until we can do a thing about it," Mal sighed, "Perhaps sleep will help for the time being until I can get to the meds we have stored with our luggage."
John groaned quietly, his eyes now squeezed tightly shut from what appeared to be pain.
"I think we should pull over now…" Paul affirmed at once, glancing to his best mate in ample unease.
"We're trying to make up for lost time, Paul!" Eppy protested, his voice holding just as firm, "Don't make this anymore difficult than it needs to be!"
"None of that matters!" Paul argued, this time catching the attention of Ringo and George who'd somehow been oblivious thus far.
"I don't believe this," Eppy sighed as he signaled for the driver to do as Paul insisted.
As soon as the limo slowed to a stop at the side of the busy road, Paul reached over Lennon and thrust the door open, taking care not to push it too far into any unsuspecting oncoming traffic. Just as suddenly as the door slid even the slightest bit ajar, Lennon's head gravitated towards it and within seconds, he was dry heaving out on the side of the road.
Eppy was suddenly frantic with worry for the madness of the situation as he reluctantly came to terms with what was happening. Here they were. Four Beatles, two managers, and a driver, casually pulled over on the side of the road with nothing about them but cars speeding by, each and any one containing unknown passengers with unknown intentions. There was no telling what could happen if someone happened to catch sight of John Lennon, of all people, completely sick and vulnerable… out in the open… "Fer chrissakes, get him in 'ere!" he shouted suddenly, unable to stand the insanity any longer.
Having been cajoling John all the while in a brotherly and affectionate fashion, Paul finally heaved a sigh and obediently helped to ease him back into the closed quarters of the limo.
As the rhythm guitarist sluggishly eased back into his seat, his head pounding a sickening amount, Mal hurriedly moved to close the door.
"Y'can't do that!" Ringo asserted, his eyes wide, "What if he has to heave again!"
"We'll get him to the nearest loo!" was Eppy's exasperated and somewhat dismissive response, "We simply can't allow ourselves to be in such compromising situations! We need to go!"
"Well, someone needs to go track down our things and find John's meds first!" Paul snapped, crossing his arms stubbornly across his chest, "and if no one else does, then I will!" He pointed to John's still shivering and pained form, "Look at him! It would be immoral to allow him to suffer continuously knowing we have any form of relief nearby."
Eppy paled even more at the thought of McCartney exposing and endangering himself in the public eye as he'd readily suggested.
"Don't be daft, Macca. I'll do it," Mal avowed, much to Eppy's gratitude. Hurriedly, he threw open the side of the door away from the street and made his way towards the elongated front of the limo where some of their small items were being held. After five anxiety-filled minutes, he finally reentered the limo with a small bag, hurriedly shutting the door soundly behind him. At his command, the limo started up again and in almost hasty a nature, proceeded to ease back into traffic.
"What do we have here…?" Mal mumbled, beginning to rifle through bottles and bottles of prescription medications. He looked up suddenly, his gaze searching out John's paled face, "Did you manage to eat something before we left?" he demanded.
"John?" Ringo inserted in the absence of his response.
"Hm?" John, having nearly fallen asleep on the spot, jolted to sudden attention.
"Have ye' eaten yet today?"
"I… uh…" John hesitated only momentarily before reality of the situation clicked into place. No food intake meant no relief through meds… He needed meds… Had he eaten by this point? He hadn't … had he? Upon coming to terms with the inconvenient revelation, his devious nature, slightly altered by illness, slipped into place, "Yeah… I think…" he murmured almost unconvincingly.
Mal's eyes narrowed suspiciously, "What do y'mean, you think? Did you or didn't you eat something?"
John painfully managed a nod, this time no hesitation present within his tired, heavy, burning eyes.
"You'd better be telling the truth. I've stressed it enough and you've experienced it more than you should have. These meds won't make you feel the least bit better if you've got nothing inside of you beforehand…"
"He 'as got nothing inside 'im! Remember?" Ringo stepped in, "Whatever was there, 'e's just thrown up…"
"I wouldn't even call that throwing up. That was more in the way of dry heaving," Mal clarified, his eyes proceeding to narrow on John with even more suspicion, "You didn't actually eat… did ye'?" he concluded knowingly, beginning to piece together the puzzle that Lennon had unwittingly presented to him.
John managed a slight unnerving grin of faint amusement, "Does tea count?"
"Of course not!" Paul mumbled, suddenly frustrated with the fact that John hadn't taken the advice offered by any of them, "Why on earth wouldn't you eat? Chances are, you'd probably be feeling a bit better by this point if ye' had!"
John's eyes narrowed upon Paul's face, "I didn't… I don't feel well, y'stupid git," he found the energy to snap, "Would you eat?"
"George did when 'e was sick," Ringo piped up.
"He didn't have a choice," Paul affirmed managing a slight grin, "Ye' did practically spoon-feed him, Ritch!"
"'E was always willing, nonetheless," Ringo stated with a shrug.
"Well, I'm not George!" John found himself barking in his own defense, "Precious George, 'ad the flu… I don't… I…" his voice, increasing in hoarseness, cracked and he quickly allowed it to trail off.
"You what, John?" Paul inquired, his tone, though somewhat urgent, easing gently from him.
"Nothing…" Without another word, he turned to look out the window, watching with an increasingly churning stomach, the blurred scenery as it went by at incomprehensible speeds… His eyes, in reaction to the subsequent nausea surging within him, closed after a while as though providing to him a form of defense of some sort… and eventually much-needed sleep claimed him as a result…
'Nothing…' McCartney echoed in his head as he continued to gaze doubtfully at Lennon's now peaceful form. Clearly, the guitarist took him for an idiot even daring to feed him with his poorly constructed rubbish. Well, Paul had news for him- He didn't believe him for a second. There was something bothering the guitarist… and something he wasn't openly revealing… His most recently acquired, poorly applied, secretive nature sealed it.
Paul chose to leave it alone for the time being, however, deciding it unethical to wake him. John was dead knackered… and his constant self-description of 'feeling like shit' no longer seemed intense enough to even begin to describe his well-being. It hadn't for a long time, really… and Paul was almost certain by now that this illness— whatever the bloody hell it was, wasn't the flu or anything remotely like the flu. The flu, as extreme as it often proved itself to be, seemed so much milder in nature when measured up to this particular illness- whatever it was. Perhaps, though… Just perhaps he was overanalyzing the entire thing as he often would. Regardless, it didn't stop any increasingly bad feelings from making itself known and continuing to do so even now. He was certain of only one thing coursing through his mind. Something was off and had been off for a while now… Something inevitable seemed to be bearing down on them… All of them…
"Glad Lennon's managed to gain enough comfort to sleep," Mal commented from his seat, glancing with some present relief at the sleeping rhythm guitarist.
Paul nodded, finding it unnecessary to even respond. Now if only their mate could wake up undeniably healthy—they'd really be on the right track at that point and this day wouldn't possibly seem so… strangely ominous.
Placing forth a rather large yawn, he finally lifted his attention off John and shifted it in the complete opposite direction, past George out the window. They were beginning to near the airport, he could see. Not only had traffic increased tenfold, but the sky seemed to be ridiculously populated with low flying airplanes; a customarily reliable sign that they were nearing one of New York's most cherished manmade organizations.
"Almost there, boys," Eppy revealed unnecessarily as if managing to tap into Paul's thoughts for that brief moment, "Soon we'll be en route to entirely new territory."
No one responded. Eppy in his blinded mode of excitement didn't seem to take notice as he began to ramble on incessantly about what New Jersey would have in store for them. Something he'd revealed many times already since the dawn of the day. Paul only listened with half an ear while Ringo proceeded to humor him with cleverly placed pleased nods and grins. John slept on while George stared aimlessly out the window.
Paul frowned slightly as George manifested in his line of vision. The lead guitarist seemed oddly distant this morning… even for him. Paul found himself reaching behind Ringo and nudging him in attempt to gain his attention. "'Ey, Geo, y'still with us?" he asked, bringing another nudge to meet his arm.
After a few beats too long, George turned to face him with tired eyes as though he might've been contemplating on ignoring him altogether. "Yeah… Why shouldn't I be?" he asked.
Ringo caught between them, turned to glance at George with curiosity and then at Paul.
"You seem a bit out of it, really…" Paul explained, a twinkle of concern embedded within his large eyes, "Between you and Space Cadet Lennon, I don't know which one's worse… Ye' all right?"
George blinked and scrubbed at an eye, "Yeah… Just admiring the clouds, I guess…" he responded sheepishly. He yawned, the biggest yawn Paul was sure he'd ever seen from him and coughed slightly in the aftermath. "Might've dropped off even…" he continued; his voice slightly hoarse. "This flu still 'asn't quite left me it seems."
Paul paused to narrow his eyes on the lead guitarist, not overly convinced by such a revelation, "If that's the case, then y'seemed a bit better yesterday…" he relayed truthfully, "Y'feel all right, Geo?"
George shrugged, his gaze falling sheepishly to the floor of the limo.
It was Ringo's turn to dabble in concern as he came to terms right then on how peaked their younger mate seemed right then. Before anything more could be said, he launched a hand to his forehead, taking in the minor amounts of heat that seemed to radiate from it. George was running a bit of a fever… "Yer a bit warm, love..." he reluctantly revealed.
"This day just gets better and better…" Paul mumbled; ample sarcasm present in his voice.
The following sighs of frustration heaved by both Mal and Eppy summed up the general feelings of dejection within the limo cabin.
"It doesn't mean, he'll get what Lennon has," Paul asserted after a while with a bit of his own optimism as limited as it was proving to be on this particular day, "We'll send for a doctor once we get to the hotel. Might do John some good even…"
"It'll have to wait until after the press conference, I'm afraid," Eppy sighed unhappily, "Our schedule's even tighter this time around than it was even yesterday…"
"Good thing for these meds then," Mal mumbled, "I'll find Lennon something to eat at the airport while we await our flight, and both he and Harrison can partake in something beneficial in the meanwhile…"
Paul heaved a sigh in spite of his near desperate will to remain positive. As far as bad feelings went, life was doing too good a job at proving them valid. He didn't like that one bit.
A/N: Hmmm... Thoughts? Suggestions? Reviews? Hate it? Love it? Hate me? Hahaa what are ya all thinking?