A/N: I forgot the disclaimer in the last chapter. I do NOT own the Beatles. IF I did, they'd all still be alive :). -Naturelover
It was a half hour further into the morning by the time Neil Aspinall arrived bearing the coveted garments for four bathrobe-clad Beatles. McCartney was well aware of the fact by then that they had approximately fifteen minutes if even that to fully complete the task of readying themselves. And then Brian, running on time as he always was, would arrive set and eager to jump-start the trials of the day, no questions asked. Lennon seemed to think that he had some kind of say in regards to how things would play out. And while this was sometimes a plausible occurrence, Paul was convinced it would all work out for the best. Brian had been raving about this photo shoot for days, and if that wasn't bad enough, it had been labeled mandatory meaning that the Beatles as a whole absolutely had to go through with it, sick drummer and all. As manipulative as John knew how to be, it most likely wouldn't be enough to overturn even the most minor of shortcomings.
"Why so glum?" Neil asked as he set the garments down on the backside of one of the sitting room chairs. He felt as though he'd just intruded in on something that he wasn't meant to be a part of, "Don't you wish to have yer photographs taken?"
George flippantly waved him off, "I could take it or leave it."
Paul pushed past him, eager to get at the clothing they were destined to wear. He picked up the top outfit labeled 'George' and hastily thrust it at him, the force causing the lead guitarist to stumble backwards in surprise. "Here. Take this before we leave you," the bass player ordered snippily.
"Everything in order here?" Neil asked, deciding he'd better press if he was to learn anything at all.
"Well, y'waltz in here a mere fifteen minutes before Eppy's due to show his face," Paul frantically pointed out, rushing to pull on his slacks beneath his bathrobe, "We're so far behind schedule, I can't even see it anymore!"
"I'm doing the best I can with the limited time that I have!" Neil defended himself, "Mal and I can only accomplish so much, y'know!"
John came up behind Paul, looking to grab his outfit as well. He picked up Ringo's garments in addition to his own and handed them to George, carelessly piling it on top of everything he'd already received from Paul.
"I've already got mine!" Harrison started to protest, "These are Ringo's!"
"Make haste and bring them to him, then," John sharply commanded.
"Where is Ringo, anyroad?" Neil asked, looking about the sitting room and realizing for the first time that he didn't see the lively drummer anywhere.
"Down for a minor kip," Paul softened his edge towards Neil, finally coming to the conclusion within his own mind that he wasn't truly upset with him. He was rather upset with the way things were going.
The roadie looked surprised, "Our Ringo?" he questioned incredulity ruling his voice.
"He's a bit under the weather, I think," Paul reluctantly revealed, "John says he's got a fever."
A hint of concern flashed across Aspinall's face. "Where is he?" he asked.
"His room," George piped up, "If yer looking to check in on 'im, y'can take his clothes to him, as well." He beamed deviously as he handed Ringo's preselected clothing to the unsuspecting roadie.
Neil took them with a roll of the eyes and proceeded to stand in the same spot, no initial move made to seek out the drummer.
"Well, what y'waiting fer, Nell?" John brusquely asked, as he tugged on his own pair of slacks, using his long robe to his advantage in keeping covered.
"Am I s'pposed to know which room is his?" Neil asked.
John buttoned his pants and quickly moved to tackle his shirt. As he worked to button it, he took a step towards the Beatles' roadie and longtime friend. "Ah right," he vocalized all the while with an air of theatricality, "No one's given ye'the grand tour as of yet." He took an over-the-top bow, "Allow me!"
Neil glanced quickly to Paul who innocently shook his head as though to say, 'He's yer problem now!' The roadie shrugged concededly and allowed for the animated rhythm guitarist to show him the way. John did so, moving about the place with all the flair in the world. Neil couldn't help but laugh. The man was a natural comedian.
"And here we have the room of Ringo Starr and George Harrison!" Lennon threw open the door, "Behold!" he chirped.
Secure in his bed, wrapped up in an impossible amount of blankets, Ringo turned towards the doorway, bleary blue eyes taking in the added company as they entered. "Neil!" he tiredly acknowledged, struggling to construct a smile.
"And John!" Lennon comically added solely for his own benefit. He narrowed his eyes at Ringo, "Or don't I count?"
The drummer shrugged dismissively, "Well, I've seen yer already, Lennon," he pointed out, a wry grin finally breaking out.
Neil strolled further into the room, a sympathetic smile warming his young face, "How're y'doing, Ring?" he asked, "I heard yer feeling a bit ill this morning."
"Got anything on yer person for a cold?" Ringo beseechingly requested, eyes straying to every pocket he could find on the roadie.
"Is that what y'think this is?" Neil asked him, looking closely at him, his eyes radiating concern.
Ringo looked thoughtful for a fleeting moment before dissolving into a look of genuine uncertainty. "I don't really know. 'S'mostly me throat, really. I'm not even sneezing or anything."
It was Neil's turn to look thoughtful, "I could round up some lozenges to get you through the day. Allow me t'scout about." He thrust his armful of clothes at the drummer finally, "In the meantime, put these on. Brian should be by any moment now."
Ringo nodded and gently retrieved the articles of clothing. "I'll be out in a moment," he rasped.
Neil nodded and took the liberty of leaving the room, John right behind him.
"I'll be back with some lozenges," Neil announced, hurriedly making his way to the suite's door.
"See ya, then!" George called after him, the lead guitarist finally clad in the clothing he was destined to wear for the day. Deeming himself ready, he sat in one of the sitting room's two loveseats and waited patiently for the others to catch up.
"Is Ring getting ready?" Paul urgently asked of John. He glanced at his watch, "It's almost time t'go!"
"No one's going anywhere until we talk to Brian!" John fiercely snapped.
"And what exactly is it y'think talking to Brian is going to do, John?" Paul countered, placing his hands on his hips as he looked his best mate in the eye, "As long as Ringo thinks he's able to go about the day, he's not going to stand in his way and tell him otherwise!"
And for once, John didn't have an answer. "It's just… he's got a fever, y'know," he spoke softly after a while, "And he sounds fucking awful."
"I'm not disagreeing with you," Paul relented, "I just don't think Brian will— I mean, judging from past experiences…" He trailed off as Ringo entered the room, dragging a boatload of blankets with him. The layered covers draped comfortably over his shoulders, he hugged them to himself, shivering violently beneath them. "Blimey…" he acknowledged in observation, officially halting his conversation right then.
The drummer traipsed by them en route to the nearest, available seat where he lowered himself next to George, wrapping himself up all the more.
"Ringo, y'dressed, love?" Paul asked, having failed to see any trace of his getup through the mess of blankets surrounding him.
Coughing slightly, the drummer nodded.
"That was quick," John commented.
"I've many tricks up me sleeve," Ringo found the energy to quip. He coughed once more, wincing in the aftermath.
"Leprechaun magic, no doubt," Lennon grinned.
And Ringo laughed, coughing even harder as the humor-induced spasms tore through him.
McCartney disapprovingly frowned as he looked on. "Quit making 'im laugh, y'git!" he ordered of the rhythm guitarist, "He's suffering enough, as is!"
"Laughter's the best medicine!" Lennon countered, "Everyone knows that!"
"Not if it kills 'im first!"
Ringo struggled to get his coughing under control, "I'm fine… really!" he hoarsely choked out.
"And that's why y'can hardly breathe…" George observed matter-of-factly, gazing at him interest.
"I can!" Ringo pouted with sudden frustration, "It's jus' me stupid throat causing this," he muttered unhappily, "Trying t'kill me, it is!"
Paul sighed, realizing right then what it was they had to do. They had to talk to Brian. Postpone things if they could or leave Ringo behind under the company of Neil or Mal. The drummer was sick. Feverish with chills sick.
"Are we up yet?"
John and Paul heard Brian's voice long before they saw him enter. But there he was standing just inside the door, his gaze fixated on the two major songwriters of the band.
"Do y'see otherwise?" Lennon skeptically questioned of him, "And don't yer knock? I could've been naked 'ere."
Looking at him solely, Brian blushed. "Right er… anyroad, are we ready t'go?" he hurried to ask, eager to hide behind a wall of professionalism.
Paul frowned, "Aye, Brian but… I don't think Rings is going t'make it."
"What do you mean?" Brian demanded, his eyes narrowing on the bass player now.
"He's sick as a fucking dog, Eppy!" John bluntly clarified, "See fer yerself!" He gestured towards the couch where Ringo sat alongside George, the poor thing looking near comatose.
"Ritch, what's the matter?" Brian inquired, moving quickly towards him.
"'S'me throat," the drummer quietly rasped. His following attempt at stifling a shiver as it eased out from him failed miserably and had Brian practically kneeling down to his level.
"Do I need to send fer a doctor?" he asked, his tone riddled with seriousness, "Do you think you'll be all right?"
The drummer, hurriedly shaking his head at the first question, quickly switched to a nod at the second question. "I'm hoping I will be," he added.
Brian nodded. But rather than allowing for relief to flood him, the manager instead sought out Ringo's forehead with the back of his hand. The amount of heat was an automatic tell. The drummer most certainly was not well.
"Ritch, you have a fever!" Eppy confirmed, all but happy with the revelation, "Are you certain, y'won't be needing a doctor?"
Again, Ringo shook his head, "If it's all the same t'you," he croaked, "I'd like to attempt t'get through the day."
"All right," Eppy responded with a lack of certainty, "Let's head on over to the photo shoot then…" He straightened on his feet, "I suppose this is for the best. I simply wouldn't have been able to reschedule had it come down to such a thing. And the photo shoot does call for all four of you…" He turned to Ringo once more, a stern look gracing his polished features, "However, Ritch, if you start to feel even the least bit worse for wear, you let someone know, got it?"
"Mal er… Nell went t'get some lozenges, anyroad," John pointed out, "He's usually good with the sort of thing. He can babysit the lad during the shoot."
"Who says I need babysitting?" Ringo glanced at John, his eyes narrowing petulantly on him, "I may be the shortest but I am the oldest, y'know. I took care of you, when y'were ill last, didn't I?"
John shrugged, unperturbed, "Well now it's our turn to return the favor, lil' drummer boy," he asserted.
Ringo rolled his eyes despite comforting feelings of emotional warmth rushing over him. It was rather endearing actually that Lennon of all people wished to help care for him. The rhythm guitarist must've appreciated his motherly antics more than initially realized. But then again, it wasn't as though he'd had a mother of his own to compare to.
"Fine," he gradually relented, "Do what y'think y'have to do. But no babying me on the set."
Paul chuckled lightheartedly, "How adorable it is, that y'think ye'have a say on how we treat ye', Ring!"
"Don't I?" Ringo challenged.
"Nope," Harrison hurriedly professed, officially sealing the deal. He was glad that for once someone other than him would be receiving the attention that would otherwise be on him for simply being the youngest… and 'least experienced' as Lennon had time and again put it. He didn't envy Ringo one bit.
"All right, lads!" Brian competently announced, "Gather round! Let me have a look at each of you! Allow me to make sure you meet proper standards!"
"I know I do!" Lennon haughtily crowed, "Or rather yer standards, Eppy-dear!" He narrowed his eyes suggestively on the manager and playfully fluttered his eyelashes.
Brian wasn't the least bit impressed by such a display, characteristic as it was. "Fix your tie, Lennon," was his only response.
Paul rolled his eyes as he came up behind Brian, eyeing Lennon's slightly disheveled appearance all the while, "Allow me, Johnny-dear," he suggested, mocking the tone the rhythm guitarist had used on Brian, "I'm forever cleaning up yer act, aren't I?"
"Well, someone has to," George innocently quipped.
"Mind yer own business, son," John glared at him. With a nod for McCartney, he allowed for the bassist to sweep in and perfect his attire as he often would whenever the opportunity would present itself. Paul and Ringo easily had to have been the most maternal-oriented members of the band, he mused.
Paul took a step back when finished and playfully took in his 'masterpiece', "Like an artist, I am," he laughed good-naturedly, "I call this, 'Lennon in Bloom.'"
John glared at him, a fist raised. "I call this 'Fist in Bloom'" he snapped, "And it's got a different kind of opinion fer ye', y'bloody queer!"
The others laughed.
As the four Beatles gathered subsequently around Brian, he immediately went to work checking each and every one of them with skilled, scrutinizing eyes. Liking what he was faced with now, he turned promptly to the door and proceeded to yank it open, "Come 'ead now!" he proudly broadcasted, "Out we go! Not a minute t'waste."
George looked nervously about before following John and Paul out the door, "Shouldn't we let on t'Neil that we're leaving?"
"He's well aware of the time, Geo," Brian verified, alleviating the lead guitarist's worries, "He and Mal will meet us at the car, no doubt."