A/N: Hey guys, ringos-girl here! This is just some McLennon stuff I came up with a few days ago. Constructive criticism is welcomed! This is my first fic on this site, so please be kind. Thanks, and enjoy~!
*note: I, of course, do not own the Beatles or any of its members. If I did, they'd all be alive and would live in my house.
It was late autumn of 1965 – November, I believe – and the four of us, along with George Martin, were in the studio once again, the others watching and listening as I worked on vocals for one of the songs for the new album, the song being Michelle. It was late and we were all tired; we'd been recording all day. I was the only one with any energy left in me, so I'd decided to venture off and work at Michelle. The French bits were still giving me a bit of trouble.
This go-around, I was doing fine up until the final "ma belle", where I hit a note so horribly wrong that I cringed a little. I tried to continue, but completely garbled the French lyrics and stopped abruptly, exasperated. I gritted my teeth in frustration and kicked half-heartedly at the music stand in front of me, causing it to wobble but remain upright. Muttering a few cross oaths under my breath, I dropped into a stiff, uncomfortable plastic chair and grabbed my Hofner, plucking irritably at the strings.
I looked up at the sound of the door opening to see John entering the room, being followed by George – Harrison, that is, George Martin had lingered behind the mixing desk – and Ringo. The two of them hung back in a corner, exchanging glances before starting up a murmured conversation, while John strode over to me. I braced myself for the onslaught of criticism and insults that was bound to come. Instead, however, John pulled up a chair in front of me and sat on it backwards so that he was facing towards me. He was close, close enough for me to see the faint bags under his eyes from the exhaustion of working all day.
John opened his mouth to speak, but closed it at the heated glare I gave him.
"I don't want to hear it, Lennon," I growled, keeping my attention on the bass in my hands. Without really thinking about it I began playing through the bass-line of Help!. My fingers moved quickly and angrily, mostly out of annoyance towards myself. John reached over and gently pried the instrument out of my grip, setting it down carefully on the ground behind him.
"Calm down, Macca," John said with an unusually straight face. "What's wrong, then?" I crossed my arms.
"I did horribly. The song is crap. I'm a crap singer."
"You're just tired, Paul. You're not a crap singer and yeh know it. You're just havin' a rough time with this'un, that's all. It's high time we all got home, anyways."
The soothing tone with which John spoke surprised me, but I refused to let it show. Why was he being so nice? John Lennon wasn't nice, he was a cocky, arrogant sod with a sharp wit and a sharper tongue. That was the image he liked to project, at least. I'd known the bloke for years. He'd always been that way. So why was he acting so comforting now?
Still, there was truth in his words.
"Maybe you're right," I muttered reluctantly. "It's been a bloody long day." One corner of John's mouth turned up.
"Give us a smile, then, McCartney!" he sang cheerfully. I looked at him dully. I wasn't going that far. I was still irritated. "No? Right, well, let's at least have one more go at the song and then we'll go home. You can crash at my place for the night."
"Fine. Let's go." Grudgingly I stood up, picking up my Hofner. John gestured to George and Rings to come over, each of them hefting their respective instrument or, in Richie's case, his drumsticks.
Ringo slid into place at his drum kit, John and George quickly tuned their guitars, and tiredly I counted us off.
"Michelle, ma belle, these are words that go together well, my Michelle," I sang. Ringo picked up the beat, the other two starting in with their backing vocals. I glanced back at John, catching his encouraging nod and small smile.
"Michelle, ma belle. Sont les mots qui vont tres bien ensemble, tres bien ensemble." My heart leaped as I finally got it right. Ringo let out a little cheer, prompting a little grin from the rest of us. "I love you, I love you, I love you. That's all I want to say, until I find a way..."
We went on successfully, finishing the song, and as soon as it was over I dropped my Hofner and made a beeline for the door, pleased but dead tired.
"Good show, Macca," John smirked, joining me. "See the effect I've got on you?"
"Sod off," I muttered, hiding a smile. "Just get me home before I pass out on yeh." We called a goodbye to Ringo and the Georges, and then I followed John out of the studio and to his car. Luckily, it was dark outside and nobody was on the street to recognize us and mob us. We slipped into the car and started off.
John flipped on the radio, keeping the volume low. An old Berry song was on, one we both knew; John began tapping the beat on the steering wheel with his fingers. Between the steady roar of the vehicle's motor and John's soft singing, his voice shot from a full day of singing, I dozed off not three minutes after sitting in the passenger seat.