Chapter Text
Year: November of 1967
The air was thick with tension in the Abbey Road recording studio. Discussions had begun for the next Beatles album and all four of them had something to bring to the table. The bickering was mostly happening between Paul and John over what direction they wanted their tracks to go. Paul desperately argued for a lighthearted sound that told a story while John was certain there had been enough of that with Sgt. Pepper and was being overly stubborn about created a harder sound. George, who just wanted his songs to be taken seriously (as he was sure they were better than anything the Lennon-McCartney duo ever pulled out of their asses), bit in with some backhandedly harsh comments. All the while, Ringo (ever the pacifistic) didn't manage to get out more than a 'but' or a 'what'.
The onlookers lurking about the studio, including yourself, watched with baited breathes, afraid that if they made a noise too loud then the band would turn their red tinted sights on destroying them. While for most the situation was merely awkward, for you it only brought about a strong bout of anxiety. The way the men would raise their voices made the thought of your own boyfriend's loud, angry vocals play over and over in your head, like a broken record. You winced as George brought his hand down on the coffee table in an attempt to be heard. George Martin, standing only a few feet away from you, noticed, turning his head to give you a reassuring smile. You shot a strained one back at him. Although it didn't really help much with the overflow of stress your body was feeling, you appreciated the gesture nevertheless. It was the closest you'd probably ever get to the band anyway, considering that you weren't really allowed to speak or interact with them. Which was odd. Considering that they were your bosses.
It seemed you'd thought too soon about your closeness with the band as John Lennon suddenly stopped his squabbling and searched the lineup of sound engineers, producers, sectaries and interns (meaning you) for his next victim. Perhaps, as though he were a shark, he could sense that you were weak, his eyes narrowing as they landed on you. He beckoned and someone standing to you pushed you forward.
"You, yes you. Fetch me a cuppa, would you?" He demanded, already looking annoyed with you. Paul sitting next to him, nudged him and muttered something about being polite. John rolled his eyes but added a strain, "Please, if you could, poppet."
"Of course, sir. I'll be right back with that." You said quietly, ignoring the sarcastic way he drug out the pet name.
Before you were out of earshot, you heard Paul chastised, "Couldn't you see she was upset about something?"
Oh Paul. If only he knew.
Ten minutes later, you returned with the tea. The rest of the non-Beatles company had cleared out. The arguing had died down and John and Paul were now sitting peacefully, going over a song. Ringo had set himself up in the back with his set, messing with different riff variations. George, it seemed, had gone to the loo. John didn't look up as you approached, which you were grateful for, sure that if he did, your hands would shake even more. You were so caught up in worrying that he was suddenly going to shoot you in the head with his gaze, you didn't notice the coffee table right in front of you. Your foot caught on the side of it, sending you and the tea flying. You dropped the mug in order to catch yourself, nearly falling again when you heard a shatter.
Much to your horror, the piping hot liquid landed all over the two most famous musicians in the world. Paul hissed as his skin was burned however, John leaped of his seat, swearing at the top of his lungs as he took the most of it. For a second, you were convinced that John was making to strike you. It was a situation that you were all too familiar with. You threw your hands out in front of your face to protect it, crying out apologies. Everything went quiet as you launched into panic mood, forgetting to suck in air between your slurred sorries.
John was taken aback, chocking on his own words. He looked back at Paul who was equally bewildered. Both of them raised an eyebrow in realization as they made out an, "Please don't hit me!" from you.
"I'm not gunna hit you, love." The guitarist assured softly. You peered up at him skeptically. He continued, "I was just surprised, that was all. We're not upset at you."
You didn't believe him, this was some ploy. He was about to say 'Well of course I'm bloody upset, you git!', hit you, then fire you. He seemed the type to pull something like that. "But-But I broke the cup."
"We've got more of those than we know what to do with, don't worry about it." Now Paul stood, a sympathetic look on his face. Paul seemed kinder than John did, there was something about him that you trusted. You put your arms down.
"I'm sorry." You whispered, looking away from the pair in embarrassment. What kind of idiot burns John Lennon with tea? John moved to grasp your chin with his fingers, a move that he'd used countless times on shy girls and bawling fans alike, but he pulled away when you flinched, your eyes growing wide once more. Him and Paul shared a look, beginning to put two and two together. Meanwhile, you swore your heart was beating so hard, they must be able to hear it. However, it dropped when you when saw them glanced at each other. You didn't know them well, but you knew them well enough to know that neither of the men were idiots. And that stunt you just pulled didn't do anything to cover up your little secret about your home life.
"Is everything alright, sweetheart?" Paul asked gently. You nodded but said nothing. John's eyes trailed down to where your neck met your shoulder. Raising an eyebrow, you followed his gaze, alarmed to see a bruise clear as day. Before you could adjust your shirt to cover it up, John's hand shot out to move your neckline in order to get a better view of it. Your mind raced to find an explanation before he did. "Oh, that's just a hickie."
Not the worst excuse but definitely not the lest personal one you could've come up with.
"A hickie in the shape of a thumb?" John drawled unconvinced, comparing his own thumb to the mark. He was right. You'd dropped a plate and your boyfriend had yanked you to and fro in rage. "I think someone gave this too you, little bird."
Paul raised an eyebrow, leaning in, "You can tell us the truth, we won't judge."
"I dropped a plate and..." You began honestly, squeezing your eyes shut, trying to think of the rest of the story.
"And?"
"And he hit me." You finally admitted, tears springing to your eyes. Paul let out a soft cooing noise and John cupped your cheek, mumbling that everything would be okay.
Just as you made your confession, George Harrison came back into the room, spotting the crying girl in an instant. Ringo followed him as they joined John and Paul around you, making you hid your face even more. This was just great. Now you were crying over a problem that you could have solved long ago if you weren't so damn afraid. "What's going on here?"
You looked up at all four of the men, not missing how they towered over you. You cowered away, anxiety drowning out any rational thought you had. You felt like a wild animal, attempting to flee from a predator. Somewhere inside, you knew that they would never harm you in anyway, but your fight or flight was strong than somewhere inside. You wobbled a bit on your feet and George wrapped an arm around you, leading you to a spot on one of the couches. You looked around frantically, the last thing you needed was your supervisor going off on you for getting the Beatles involved with your personal life. Then you'd get fired and then you'd have to explain to your boyfriend and then he'd probably kill you. And you weren't even exaggerating. Ringo seated himself on your other side, rubbing your back as you sobbed. John and Paul resumed their original seats across from you.
"Let us help you." Offered Paul, followed by an agreeing chorus from his bandmates. You shook your head. This was your problem, you had to deal with it.
"I'm not supposed to be telling you about my personal problems, I could be fired." You sighed, wishing you could except their help.
"Darling, I think the rules are a bit different when your problem is putting your well being at risk. Besides, forget about that, we're not going to let anyone fire you. Understand?" Paul said firmly.
This time you nodded, subconsciously leaning in George who was still holding you. He squeezed your shoulder softly in response.
"How long has this been going on for?" Ringo joined in next to you. You thought for a moment. You'd lost track of time as you'd fallen into your routine of get hit and cover it up.
"A little less than a year," you murmured. The drummer nodded, side eyeing you for more bruises.
George was still confused, not having been in the room for your meltdown. "What- Is someone hurting you?"
You bit your lip, glancing up at John and Paul, both of whom were waiting for you to explain. After all, you supposed they only knew so much. "I-It's my boyfriend. He gets really angry and he beats me and I don't know what to do about it because I'm... I'm terrified of him. I think he might kill me if I tried to stand up to him."
"Do you have anywhere else you could stay?" inquired Paul, placing his finger tips together.
You shook your head no, "All of my family lives way up north and he's not been keen on me making friends."
"You can stay with us." George piped up. You looked at him in shook. Could you ask him of that? Were you allowed to do that? But what about his wife, surely she wouldn't go for her husband bringing another girl, much less a blubbering one that got herself into all sorts of trouble. George seemed to sense your worries, "You won't get into trouble here. Pattie would really love another girl in the house, I'm sure. Plus, I don't think whoever this git is will think of my place first. You'll be safe there until the police deal with him.
You bit your lip - you hardly knew the man, he could be an ax murderer - but you nodded. What other choice did you have? Plus, George had been your favorite Beatle when you were younger. And you'd met Pattie a few times, she was quite delightful. You were sure it would be fine.
"George, maybe you should take her now. She looks exhausted." Paul suggested. You blinked.
"But I have to finish-" John cut you off.
"Look at ya, dear. You've been cryin' and what not, you need food and a nap."
You gave in, letting George lead you to the front door and tuck you into his coat. You widened your eyes at the overwhelming amount of people waiting outside. George put an arm around you to shield you from the shouts and the grabs and the cameras. Your tears increased as your body took on more stress. You put your hands over your ears as people began trying to get in close to you, demanding to know your relationship to the Beatle, whether or not you were pregnant, what Pattie thought of you. Christ, this was the one time you'd ever been seen with this man, why were they jumping to all these conclusions? Was it always like this for him?
George pulled you tighter, murmuring comforts in your ear, telling you to just hold on as he fought his way to his car, opening the passenger door and ushering you in. You caught a look at your reflection in the review mirror, making you cringe. Mascara was running down your cheeks, your hair was a disater and your makeup was coming off, showing marks you'd managed to cover up. George sighed heavily as he sat in the driver's seat. He looked over at you and placed a hand on the top of your head for a second, "I'm sorry, doll, I should have warned you about them."
You shrugged through your shaking, "I-It's okay, I sorta expected it."
He smiled at you before starting the car. You curled up in your seat, feeling suddenly exhausted. As George began to hum a tune he was working on, your eyelids drop. With George, you decided you could feel safe. You smiled just slightly as you drifted off.