Chapter Text
You wake up to an average morning, Beatles posters and vinyls decorating your room like usual. Time to remind you who you are.
You are a 19 year old Doncastrian named Donna Bennett - named after your grandmother, Donna Clarke, who'd introduced you to them when you were very young. You'd heard stories about how she'd known Ringo Starr long before he became the drummer of the band and always envied her in a way for it.
But that was long before she met your grandfather, moved from Liverpool to Doncaster, and eventually had your mother, all while listening to the news of the band breaking up, Lennon's death, Harrison's stabbing, and the like. It was a strange form of grief you felt - towards those you'd never known and still felt close to in a deeply spiritual way.
Anyhoo, you began your day, heading downstairs to prepare breakfast. You wouldn't call yourself a super-fan, per say, more like a person who happened to know all the songs, all the lore, all the eras and all the boys' favourite way of taking English breakfast tea. No, you're not like those other girls who'd scream and squeal and pelt jelly beans at the boys. You're normal. Normal Donnie.
A knock can be heard at the door. Is it a relative your parents sent making sure you don't burn down their home while they're away? Is it that evil taxman? Is it the neighbour asking to borrow some more sugar?
You figure guessing is of no use as you take your plate to hold below the toast hanging out your mouth as you sluggishly make your way to the door. You haven't even had your Monster energy yet, who could it be this early?
You peep out the peephole - as that's what that's for - and see...
...Them.
The Beatle boys.
You must be hallucinating, or so you assume, toast dropping out your lips and onto the plate, jam-side down, which you rush to put onto the counter, hurriedly grabbing a jacket to wear over your wrinkly, toothpaste-stain-clad Queen shirt.
That's right, a girl's allowed to like more than one band.
You peep out again, finding the Beatle boys now chattering to one another. That convinced you even more, as their very way of speaking and mimicry was distinctly them. You take a deep breath. This'd be the perfect time to panic, yet you disallow yourself. It could just be some sort of tribute band of impersonators dropping off flyers for a show downtown for a 'retro night'. Weird, they never had impersonators do that before - playing like them is already impressive, but looking exactly like them?
You gently open the door.
"...Can I help you, gentlemen?" You politely say, almost hoping, begging, pleading God to let them just be really good impersonators, perhaps ones pulling a prank.
"Excuse me, madam," the Paul speaks, his voice shockingly like the real deal, "Do you happen to know where we could catch the bus to Liverpool?"
You have half the urge to tell them to just use Uber and see what happens, in case somehow, some way, they are indeed them, which shouldn't be possible. Underneath that thought, the feeling that they, indeed, are not impersonators sends creeps up your spine. There was no rational explanation left - none that you could think of.
"We... don't really know where we are exactly," John adds.
"Not anywhere near Liverpool, that's for sure." You reply, awkwardly shifting your weight against the doorway. "You're in Doncaster."
"Told ya!" George pipes up, looking at Paul.
Paul clicks his tongue, "It's not about pointin' fingers, Georgie."
Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God.
"How'd we even get this lost?" Paul worries.
"Don't you remember? That regular offered us a ride home." John mentions, "That odd one with the shades and... that weird cloak."
"Oh, Lord..." Paul covers his face, "Told ya we shouldn't trust that guy!"
Well, that's a piece of Beatles lore you never heard.
"How the bloody hell did he take us all the way to Doncaster?" Paul continues.
"By car, Macca." John smirks.
Paul smacks him lightly, clicking his tongue, then turns to you.
"Sorry 'bout them, we... had a gig at the Cavern club last night and..." Paul earnestly says, "We woke up in this... park."
"And we came over here because all other houses had closed curtains and this... weird mechanical voice," Ringo reveals.
You frown, "What voice?"
"Like a person, but there was nobody there." George mentions. "Macca looked around twice before we realised."
Oh, they mean smart intercoms.
"Right, right, er..." You attempt to remain normal. "Come in, then. Liverpool's a long way from here."
Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God.
The boys share an approving look, nodding and heading inside.
"Cool pad!" John praises, looking around, "Very... contemporary."
"S'pose it is quite nice," Paul inspects, "Though the telly's missin' its back."
You divert the boys to the kitchen before they could ask too many questions.
"Sit down," You lead them to the dining table, seating them, perhaps too quick for comfort, "Anything to drink?"
"Cuppa tea, like," John states, as if it were obvious.
"Second that," Paul replies.
"Yeah," George looks between them, then at you.
"We'd all love a cuppa tea like." Ringo concludes.
"Uh-huh..." You hum, turning around to fetch your tea.
Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God.
Now, unfortunately, you didn't have the 'true blue loose leaf English breakfast tea' on you, so you had to rely on the pack of bagged tea leaves your memory convinced you you still have.
You realise that, despite being a bred and born citizen of the crown, your love of cuppa tea like couldn't stand the invasion of the ambrosia-like God-sent flavour of Monster energy ultra white (not sponsored).
Because of these factors, your rumbling through the cupboard soon turns frantic before you spot the bagged tea pack. You turn on the electric kettle, staring at them for a moment in case they notice. George sees you stare, meeting your glance to smirk before turning back to the others, somehow oblivious to the whirring of the kettle over the blokes' usual chatter. To be fair, John was being quite loud.
You prepare four cuppas of tea like, serving them with hopes of bagged tea having been invented and popularised enough in whatever year they came from.
They look at the tea, then up at you.
"What's this, la? Did a mouse drown in me hot water?" John remarks with a smirk.
"And did it drink the milk from the bottom of the cup?" George adds, "This cuppa tea like is as proper as Paul's eyebrows."
"Oi!" Paul exclaims, then turns to you, "Sorry 'bout them, they usually know how to behave, but..."
You hint with your hand, "Oh, don't mention it. They're right, I'll go get the milk."
"Doesn't that go first?" Ringo questions your logic.
"Not with bagged tea, Ringo." Paul explains, deciding his brew soaked in the water enough to grab the sugar spoon you set out and fish out the soppy baggie. "This... American gimmick of a so-called 'drink'..." he adds with a sneer and a side-eye at the so-called 'tea'.
"I'm sorry, okay? It's all the shops had." You hastily pour the carton of milk in the nearest jug so they don't question why it expires in 2026 and why it's in a carton in the first place.
"Impossible." John states, "Sure ya didn't accidentally mistake the shops for the fare?"
You huff a laugh. Was tea really this serious for them? Such was what foreigner friends of yours would say to you with your current, albeit more liberal tea habits, but you figured it was exaggeration, so perhaps they would, too.
"It's good tea, innit," George comments regardless, stealing Paul's sugar spoon to add even more sugar into his share. "Made by a lovely hostess."
"Aye." Ringo nods, "Thank you, for everything."
You give a humble smile, "Any time."
Paul then turns to you fully.
"Forgive us, we never asked your name." He smiles, cheeky.
Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God.
"Oh, it's... Donna." You say with a smile, "Nice to meet you lot."
"Lovely, Donna." Paul nervously laughs to himself, "Bit late of an introductory, where's my manners?"
You huff a laugh, your hostess side able to rest as you let yourself dreamily stare at his face, and the rest of the other guys' face, all of them looking at you. It was odd, yet flattering.
"I'm Paul McCartney. That handsome chap over there," He hints his head at John, "is John Lennon."
"I'm George." George interrupts Paul's welcome wagon and grins at you. "And this is Ringo."
"Ringo?" You act surprised, as you're not supposed to know them yet.
"It's 'cus I wear rings," He smiles, showing you them.
"Uh-huh..." You smile.
"And together, we're a humble little band from Liverpool called the Beatles," Paul smiles.
"Oh, that's you guys?" You continue wearing your best actress face, "I've heard of you lot, me-" Don't say grandmother "Cousin's from Liverpool, she writes me about you lot, how good you are."
Paul smiles, eyes gleaming as he looks back and high-fives the others. Ringo then turns to you.
"Donna..." he repeats. "I know a Donna, you remind me of her..."
You freeze, a nervous drop of sweat building on your forehead.
"Oh, I do?" You humbly smile.
"Aye, isn't she your cousin by chance?" Ringo asks, "Donna. Donna Clarke."
"I..." Your voice grows quieter. "I'm Donna Bennett."
Ringo nods, "So you don't know a Donna Clarke from Liverpool?"
You consider your options:
♫ "Nope."