Disclaimer: If I owned the Beatles, I'd do a lot more with them than write a crappy sick-fic. That being said, I don't own Mal Evans, Neil Aspinall, or Brian Epstein either. This is non-profit and purely for creative expression and entertainment.
A/N: I'd like to start off by thanking omgringo, Mia, and the guests who reviewed Part Two, as well as all those I thanked in the previous chapter's Author's Notes. Without your support, I could not even hope to continue this story. You amazing followers, favoriters, and reviewers are my primary motivation, and for that I cannot thank you enough.
Additionally, I'd like to apologize for the delay in posting and also for the briefness of this update. I've just started recovering from a rather debilitating rash of illnesses that rendered me virtually useless in the writing department for a few weeks, but I am back on the wagon and very excited to finish this story, hopefully with a renewed empathy for what George is experiencing as a result of my own recent health issues. As mentioned, this part is much shorter than past updates on account of my eagerness to reward your faithfulness in reading and reviewing, and for that I apologize profusely. I'm hoping desperately that I will have a final installment for you all just after New Years, and that it will be much longer and "meatier" (if you will excuse the term) than this one.
Thank you all again for your continuous support, and happy holidays!
George awoke with a start when the limo halted just outside the venue at which they would be playing the show and participating in the press conference, for there were countless screaming fans making quite a fuss about three incredibly dismal lads and their ailing younger mate, who was then looking around in an exceedingly groggy manner.
"We at the venue already, then?" he asked rhetorically, rubbing at his eyes and letting out a yawn. His voice had grown exponentially hoarser in the time he'd been asleep and no amount of throat-clearing seemed to be instrumental in changing that.
Mal exited the limo in order to check on security, as per the norm, and George tried to swallow back the tickle of a budding coughing fit that had surfaced in the back of his throat. Paul was watching him closely, noticing the look of pain that crossed the guitarist's face when he swallowed and the renewed shivering that was wracking that slender frame almost violently. At first, he was worried that George's fever was already on the rise again, but upon inspection he found no noticeable difference in the temperature of his skin.
"All right, George?" asked Paul after he'd finished feeling the young Beatle's face for sign of a rising fever. The musician in question had his arms wrapped around himself and was rubbing his biceps vigorously to generate some kind of warmth.
"'m bloody fuckin' cold," he responded, voice sounding small and croaky. He didn't like the think it, but the chances of being able to sing that night (whether he wanted to or not) were veering towards the slim side. But then, thought George, having no voice is a better excuse than having no air, so maybe that isn't such a bad thing after all. He cleared his throat again, this time just as a test, but found that he was still able to do very little about the state of his voice. "An' me throat's still hurtin'," he added.
"'e may not even be able t' sing," mused John, thinking just as George had. Eppy was trying to hide the disappointed scowl he wore, but everyone knew he wasn't at all pleased with this news. "Can ye' sing, Georgie?" John asked.
"Well I 'aven't exactly tried, now 'ave I?" grumbled George, coughing harshly into his fist.
"Try now, ya sod," ordered John almost affectionately, shaking his head just a bit. Paul obviously didn't much like the idea, but he remained quiet as George cleared his throat again.
Swallowing hard, the youngest Beatle opened his mouth and bashfully sang the first few lines to Don't Bother Me in a very weak, very gravelly version of his usual voice. His throat cried out in pain at the exertion, and each of the limousine's other occupants winced in sympathy when the sick musician was cut off by a series of agonizing coughs and quickly clapped a hand to his aching chest.
"S'pose that settles it," said John, feeling bad for having encouraged George to exert himself so. Paul was shooting the rhythm guitarist a fierce glare that spoke of familial protection over their youngest, and John's insides stirred with guilt he hoped would show in his response expression.
There was a tap on the window and all eyes turned to see Mal beckoning them from outside the limo.
"Ready, lads?" asked Brian, voice noticeably lacking its usual chipper note. Despite being perpetually exhausted from keeping up with the Fab Four and their affairs, Epstein usually strained to keep optimism present in his voice at all times in hopes of generating some cheer amongst the group. Today, however, it was obvious he'd lost all hope of raising the lads' spirits.
The Beatles clambered out of the vehicle and into the awaiting chaos, George still shivering and rubbing at his chest in extreme discomfort. The walk from the limo to the door was a mercifully short one and so the lead guitarist was not exposed to the shrill sounds of disorder for long, but immediately upon entering the building the Beatles were ambushed by the waiting press despite there being a conference only a short while away.
"What do you boys think of New Jersey?" one reporter probed, indecently shoving a recording device in John's face.
Another demanded, "Just how sick is George? Will he be playing the show tonight?"
"Is the rest of the tour in danger?"
Paul was flashing the throng of press charming smiles, but blatantly ignoring their questions as the band had been conditioned to do. Eppy announced, "The Beatles will answer many of your questions at the press conference. In the meantime, we must ask that you please make your way to the conference room."
Taking this as their cue, some of the security guards stationed inside the building approached the crowd of reporters and began ushering them towards the aforementioned conference room while Brian led the Beatles down a corridor, supposedly to their dressing room.
Feeling flustered, George followed as closely behind Ringo as he could, his breath coming in shallow gasps and his frame still wracking with the force of his incessant shivering.
"'ow long's this press conference gonna be, eh?" asked John of Eppy, calling ahead from where he trailed after George. He was growing more and more convinced that they should talk the youngest Beatle into reconsidering his decision about the show. The bloke couldn't even breathe properly, never mind remain upright and play the guitar for a solid half hour.
"We'll try to make it as brief as possible," reported Epstein. "The press won't be happy, but they know already that George is ill and needs to preserve his strength for the show."
"I really don't think 'e should be playin' the show, Eppy," Paul commented, peering over his shoulder at George. "'e's not well and oughtta be gettin' as much rest as 'e can." George could hear them talking about him clear as could be, but he didn't care to comment himself. By that point, he hardly cared about the damned concert and press conference. He was feeling so incredibly knackered that he would just as soon sleep straight through the remainder of the day as perform a bloody concert.
"We'll talk about this later, Paul," was Brian's coarse reply.
The group arrived at the dressing room and all four gloomy Beatles watched on as Brian unlocked the door with a key provided by the venue owner on their way in. The lock clicked, and Eppy led the way into the room with Mal and the Fab Four trailing behind, each harboring individual negative feelings in regards to the approaching events, ranging from Ringo's compassionate concern to George's full-blown dread.
Immediately upon entering, George made his way over to the couch and fell onto it exhaustedly and unceremoniously while Paul followed suit with John and Ringo directly behind him. Soon, all three healthy Beatles were seated by their ailing friend and bandmate while Brian towered over them with a look of unmasked concern twisting his face, his usual businesslike persona melting away to make room for a gentler counterpart. "How're you feeling, George?" he asked.
"Like utter shite," groused the lead guitarist, voice gruff. "'m about fuckin' ready fer this bloody day t' be over."
"Hear, hear," declared Paul solemnly.
"Come now, boys, there's no reason to be so sullen," expressed Brian, eyes trailing from each Beatle to the next. "After the press conference Neil will have some food for you, and then you'll be free to relax until the concert."
"'m not very hungry," admitted George. "'m bloody knackered, though. Can't wait to catch a bloody kip before the show."
"Ye've gotta eat, Georgie," said John. "Doctor's orders."
"What sort of order is that?" griped George. He really wasn't hungry, but he also wasn't that opposed to eating something. It was more that his extreme tiredness was the predominant matter on his mind and he couldn't imagine putting off the release of sleep for a meal.
"Seein' as ye' fainted from malnourishment this mornin', I'd say it's a bloody good one," Paul pointed out, causing George's eyebrows to furrow. "Not sure if you can remember through the fever haze," said the bassist, "but ye've neglected t' eat since ye' fell ill."
"Not entirely," George vied. "'m not a bloody fool. At least I tried t' eat somethin'."
"Apparently not 'ard enough," contended Paul.
Sensing the mounting tension, John allowed his gaze to dart between the two musicians as if watching a tennis match. "If yer goin' t' fight, could ye' take it into the hall?" he interjected, wishing to prevent the matter from escalating further. George wasn't up for it—nor were any of them, really—and the absolute last thing they needed to top off the day was a battle of the wits. Least of all when nobody had quite all of their wits about them.
John's interpolation snapped either musician out of whatever frustrated trance they'd both fallen under, and both looked apologetic.
"'m sorry, Georgie," confessed Paul. How many more times that day would he have to apologize for a lashing of exasperation? He was growing rather tired of hurting his mates' feelings. "'s not fair of me to get angry with you."
"'s all right." George cleared his throat, voice still regrettably feeble. "'m sorry 'm so difficult," he said, coughing into his fist. "I just don't want t' let anybody down."
"Anybody who'll be let down by you takin' care o' yerself isn't somebody ye' oughtta be worryin' about," Ringo opined, chiming in for the first time during the discourse. "Ye' need t' be lookin' after yerself first, Geo."
"I know," allowed George, sniffling. He did know that, but knowing it and acting on it were two entirely separate matters. It was so much more difficult to take care of himself than it was to talk about taking care of himself, for as tired and ill has he felt and as much as he longed for an escape from the fame, he couldn't imagine taking it easy for a change. Not when they'd worked so hard for this level of success and certainly not when there were so many people who would be saddened if they were to take a break.
"Ye've got t' give yerself time t' heal, laddie," John said, expression uncharacteristically gentle. "Better t' take a day off now than a month off when ye've gone and got yerself hospitalized!"
"Yer right, lads," said George truthfully. He agreed with them. He really did. "'m sorry."
"I hate to cut this short," interposed Brian, looking sincerely apologetic, "but it's time we head down to the conference room. After that, we'll talk very seriously about a day off." He didn't like the idea of a break, of course, but the group knew that he really did care very deeply about the four of them. He just couldn't help being a businessman at heart. "Come 'ead now."
The Fab Four climbed to their feet and trailed after Eppy in the direction from which they'd initially come. George, while steadier on his feet after that short rest, was still feeling decidedly tired and his throat was positively aching for reprieve from its unremitting soreness. Every time he dared to swallow past the lump in the back of his throat he felt a new rush of pain grip him, and he no longer knew how he was even meant to speak at this press conference. The very act of raising his voice above a hoarse whisper was downright painful and hardly effective when he had very little voice left anyway.
The lead guitarist's shivering had subsided some in the time they'd spent chatting in the dressing room, and so at least he wouldn't look so foolish right off the bat. Of course, it wouldn't take long for the very sound of his voice to muck up the illusion of strength anyway…
"Those reporters aren't expectin' me t' talk, are they, Eppy?" asked George, quickening his pace to match the manager's just so that he'd be near enough for Epstein to hear his voice.
"They know that you're ill, but they do not know the extent of it," replied Brian competently. "I'm sure that the issue of your health will arise at some point, at which time one of the other lads can feel free to speak up on your behalf." They were drawing nearer to a rather large door, behind which many voices were resonating. "You can answer if you're feeling up to it, but they'll understand that you need to preserve your voice, so you need not speak if you do not see fit."
George simply nodded in response, throat aching, and fell back in step with Paul.
"Feelin' up t' this, Geo?" inquired Paul softly, fixing the lead guitarist with a compassionate stare. "Y'know, Eppy says ye' need t' make an appearance, but if ye' start feelin' bad you can get Mal t' take ye' back to the dressin' room."
Again, George nodded, and John patted the youngest Beatle on the shoulder supportively. Ill as he felt, George really was reassured to know that he was not alone. There was no doubt in his mind that the others would waste no time before helping him out of a situation if the need were to arise, and it was with that confidence alone that he was able to bring himself to enter the conference room behind Eppy.
Countless chattering voices reached George's ears and his stomach rolled anew despite having no food left to bring up. He swayed a little, and he felt his face blanch and a hand squeeze his shoulder and urge him forward toward a row of chairs and a table strewn with microphones. The press quieted just a bit when their eyes landed on the four Beatles, and George thought he might vomit.
The group approached the table and George was relieved to see another familiar face in the room of strangers, this one belonging to Neil Aspinall who stood dutifully by the table and directed each Beatle to his respective seat.
"How're you feeling?" Neil questioned right by George's ear while the lead guitarist was taking his seat between Ringo and John.
"Awful," George admitted, voice straining to be heard above the noise even with Aspinall so close. "Think 'm gonna be sick again."
Neil grimaced gravely, patting George on the shoulder. "Well, feel free to give me a signal at any time if you have to leave," he said. "Brian's already told me that I can take you back to the dressing room should the need arise."
"Ta," replied George, propping his elbow up on the table and using his hand to shield his eyes from the camera flashes attacking his retinas. Neil gave his shoulder a squeeze and then departed to whisper something to Paul, then Ringo, and then John. George could only assume that they were talking about him, but he couldn't really care when nausea was ravaging his stomach and his chest ached too terribly to permit a normal breathing pattern. He felt like he could faint.
A voice spoke loudly, saying something about quieting down so that the press conference could begin, and silence fell over the room. George thought that he should probably look more alert, and it was with a great deal of trouble that he managed to pull his protective hand away from his face and sit up straight all on his own.
Someone was called on, and their voice cut through the virtual silence: "Welcome to New Jersey, boys!"
"Thank you!" the four Beatles chorused, one voice decidedly lacking gusto.
The same reporter spoke again: "I'd like to start off by asking how your flight over was and also what you think of Atlantic City so far." George had no intention of answering any questions throughout the press conference, and these unoriginal questions were no exception.
"The flight was very quick," said Paul charmingly, though this was not exactly the case. It'd actually felt like they were in the air for ages, given that his thoughts had been overcome by worry for George, but it probably had been a rather short flight in actuality. He chose not to say any of this aloud, of course, in favor of upholding his charming reputation. "And Atlantic City is great! Very beautiful city."
They'd seen almost nothing of the city and so far it had been nothing but bad to them, but still Ringo agreed, "Yeah, it's a really nice place."
"Have you had a chance to do any sightseeing?" asked another reporter, this one female.
"Sightseein'?" queried Paul. "No, not really. We spent most of the afternoon in the 'otel, but we did get see a good bit of the city on the drive over here."
"I saw Ringo this mornin'," deadpanned John. "It wasn't such a great sightseein' experience, t' be perfectly honest."
People laughed, and then another voice spoke up: "It was said this morning that one of you had fallen ill. What does this mean for the show tonight, and for the rest of the tour?"
All three healthy Beatles directed their gaze towards George, who was looking exceedingly unwell with his face drained of color and his eyes dull and framed by dark circles. It was obvious he was having trouble sitting up straight, and he was visibly struggling to breathe. It was a wonder he was even still conscious.
"Yeah, uh, George's ill," John announced, being the first of the Beatles to recover from the shock of seeing their friend in such a state. "As fer the show and tour, we don't rightly know at this point."
"We're takin' it one step at a time," Paul affirmed. "We'll see how quickly 'e starts feelin' better."
"Just how sick is he?" inquired a female reporter, and none of the Beatles knew exactly what to say. The truth was that none of them quite knew anymore. The doctor had said it was the flu, but the three of them couldn't bring themselves to believe that when George was so obviously suffering just in the act of bringing air into his lungs.
As the female reporter stood waiting, the youngest Beatle was blinking and rubbing at his eyes as if staying conscious was a struggle, and Paul had to look to Eppy for assistance in responding.
Taking Epstein's nod as a sign that he was allowed to tell at least part of the truth, Paul stated, "'e's been very under the weather, but with some rest and such 'e should be fine."
"'e's not carried in the plague, if that's what yer askin'," joked John.
The crowd laughed, and George tried to stifle a coughing fit in his fist while Ringo rubbed his back with an expression of deep concern. The guitarist had taken all his medication, but still he continued to suffer. The only things he seemed to be rid of were the worst of the fever and his ear and head pain. If anything, his other symptoms had only worsened since they pumped him full of drugs.
George managed to stop coughing before the crowd stopped laughing, and yet another question rang out from the crowd of press. "How are you feeling now, George?" asked a reporter, looking almost genuinely concerned. George could only assume she'd seen him coughing up a storm.
"No too terrible," lied George, voice frail. "Doctor's got me on medication, so I'm not feelin' as bad as I could be."
"Do you think you'll still be playing the show tonight?" someone asked. George wished he'd made one of the others answer that last question, for he had a feeling he was about to become very interesting in the eyes of the nosy press.
"Absolutely," George enunciated as best he could with his voice so terribly hoarse. "They'd 'ave t' tie me down t' stop me from playin'."
"Do you think you'll have to cancel any show on account of your health, George?" a reporter half-shouted, making George flinch just a bit. His head still hurt just enough for the pain to flare up at this sudden sound fluctuation, but he was hoping the others wouldn't notice his pain. Unfortunately, they did.
"As I said earlier," Paul cut in, coming to George's rescue, "we're takin' it one step at a time."
Paul's swift intervention brought both Neil's and Mal's attention to the matter of George's worsening condition, and before the lead guitarist could even process what was happening it was announced that he needed to depart in the interest of his health. The press seemed disappointed, of course, and the other Beatles were beyond concerned, but George's heart felt pounds lighter at the promise of an escape.
It was Neil who escorted George back through the winding corridors that led to their dressing room, and he was thankfully silent throughout the entire trek as if sensing that George did not feel up to talking. Within minutes, the two were locked safely away from the fans, press, and venue staff, and George immediately settled down on the couch for a quick kip.
Again, many thanks and I hope you all enjoy the remainder of the holiday season!
