Work Text:
I think Ringo has had an influence on me, good or bad. I find myself, after arriving to an empty home, exclaiming, “It’s been a fucking hard day’s night.” It’s one of his bloody Ringoisms. It makes me laugh to hear it, because, in my head, it’s his voice I’m saying it in. Only the other day, I’m sure I also used ‘eight days a week.’ I think, instead of falling in love with him, I’m becoming him. Now what a frightening thought.
It’s so quiet without him here. I skulk around the living room, wondering what to do until he comes home. I don’t want to fall asleep or else I won’t wake up for when he comes home. I don’t want to watch TV because nothing good will be on.
I know what I’ll do. The next best thing to all that. I’ll go and make food. Our kitchen is always filled with food. Food in the cupboards, food piled in the fridge, food on the surfaces, in the bread tins, in the fruit bowl. Ringo and I both love to eat, though I’m sure I like it more than him. He always insists on keeping everything perfectly filled up so that I’m never stuck for things to eat. One part of me quietly reminds me that I’ll get fat if I carry on. The rest of me laughs in that part’s face. Me, fat? I haven’t been fat in my life, nor could I put on weight if I tried.
I immediately go to the fridge and pull out some cold cuts. A nice, full sandwich sounds fantastic at the moment. It’s easy and filling. Then I might put some music on and wait for Ringo.
I think I’m looking back on my day with harsh eyes. It was busy, but I like being kept busy. If I have all the time in the world to do as I please, what would I do? Like now, I’m just making food. I want to be doing something a bit more constructive.
Well, I’d like to be doing Ringo. That’s constructive… I think.
Anyway, today wasn’t actually so bad. After a long session at EMI- at which everyone was present- I had some things to buy, but a tight schedule as we had an interview in the evening. John and Paul wanted to go back to EMI once that was done, so I tagged along, while Ringo said he had some errands he needed to run. I haven’t seen him since.
The day wasn’t even done then. It was reaching 9 o’clock and us three were still at Abbey Road. We were hungry so Paul and I hurried out for snacks, drinks and cigarettes, before getting caught by a group of fans. They were reasonable kids, not rabid fans chasing us down the street. They didn’t even walk over to us, we went to them because they were quietly giggling, quietly pointing over at us, wondering if we really were The Beatles. We chatted for a while, much to the displeasure of John when we were late coming back. After that, it was a bloody long journey home.
Home to an empty place. How lovely.
It’s not empty for that long, though. As I finish the second layer of what I’m planning to be a 6-story sandwich, I hear keys in the front door. Fuck! Ringo is going to want some. I don’t want to have to share. The unspoken agreement between us is that I eat his food, but I don’t share mine. Granted, it may be a totally one-sided understanding, but its worked so far.
I know, I’ll made Ringo his own sandwich. I am just a little reluctant to leave mine 2/3s of the way unfinished, but it’ll make Ringo happy. I want to see him smile. I slap a slice of bread on a plate, butter it and shove on some ham.
He walks in with plastic bags hanging off his arms. “Aright Georgie?” He asks as he slings them down.
“How are you, Ritchie? I’m making you a sandwich.”
He smiles, placing a hand on his chest, swooning, “You didn’t! You absolute luv! Come ‘ere, I’ve got something for you too.”
I look up again from my cooking to see my Alpha holding a small, white bag, black boarders, logo-less on the front. The handles are like black rope, hanging around his fingers. I walk around the kitchen surface and follow him into the living room which is light with a soft orange hue. He sits on his armchair- the big, green patterned chair that didn’t match any of the other furniture- while I take up the actual arm, leaning on his shoulder to see what he’d got me.
“Why did you get me something?” I ask. I haven’t bought him much, nor has he me. we felt no need. I feel bad now, knowing that he bought something for me on a whim.
As he takes out a small, rounded, black box, he says, “Well, this isn’t actually for you. I want to give you something of mine, so I bought something… just… wait a second.” The box is encased in a thin cardboard packaging. That slides off so that you can pull open the lid that’s attached on a very small hinge. Ringo flips the lid up, but hides the contents from me. He puts his decorated fingers over it, covers his right hand with his left, closes his hands around the ring on his ring finger and pulls it off.
My heart stops as he takes my skinny fingers and fits the ring on the middle one of my right hand. It’s the one with a gold band that stretches into a square at the front. A sparkling black or dark red jewel is set in the curve corner square. I look at it on my own hand, unable to formulate sentences in my mind. For me?
“I know how much you love my rings,” He proudly sings, “And I wanted you to have this one, but I couldn’t go without having a ring there, so I got another one.”
I’m gaping at it still, “I want to get you one.” I say. It just comes out. I can’t say thank you enough, so it doesn’t at all. I meet his proud gaze. He looks so happy, knowing how happy I am, “Let me get you one, Ringo. I’ll wear something of yours and you wear something of mine.”
He reaches up to kiss my neck, placing his hand over mine and gripping it tight, “You don’t need to get me anything, luv. I just wanted you to have it.”
I turn my head down to steal his puckered lips for my own, rather than them sucking on my neck. I need to taste him. “And I want you to have one of mine.” I insist when I have use of my lips.
“Ok. I think I’d like that. But don’t spend too much, luv.” He pleads, “You have no reason to spend anything on me.”
“Don’t worry about that.” He’s too nice. He’s so thoughtful. I feel like a dick because I don’t do stuff like this for him. The best I can do is make a sandwich for him so that he won’t eat mine. I kiss him harder to let him know how much I love him. I move the things on his lap onto the small table beside the chair so that I can sit there. I straddle his slightly parted legs.
“Ringo… Ringo, why do you have to be so fucking amazing. I don’t deserve you, I don’t.” I rock my hips against him, kissing him on his cheeks, his jaw, his neck, “You treat me like no one else has ever…” He groans and places his hands on my thighs to push me harder into his crotch.
“Georgie, luv, don’t say things like that. You deserve everything. I adore you. Come ‘ere and kiss me, luv.” He snogs me hard, moving one of his hands to my head, knotting in my hair. All the mushy shit is put aside for desperation, grabbing on one another as we get off to clothed touches.
Then Ringo’s stomach rumbles. We both are sent into giggles.
“Before I have you, luv, mind if I eat that sandwich?”
I chuckle, standing up and finishing off both our meals, getting two glasses out as well for something to drink. Like a good little Omega, I serve Ringo’s food to him with a kiss, before sitting on the sofa beside his arm chair. I sit right on the edge with my plate on the arm, so that I’m close to him, as close to possible.
“Ringo,” I pipe up again. He smiles when he looks at me, “I’d let you eat my last bean of food, you know that? That’s how much I love you.”
“Fuck, you must love me more than anyone else.”
We laugh again. We joke about it, but it’s true, both the loving him and the food thing. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it’s true.