A/N: Alas! Another chapter! What were the chances? Thanks to 555LordBacon666, HorrorFan13, the awesome Autumn-Wan Kenobi, as well as the always marvellous Betty Flamingo for your wonderful reviews and praise! This chapter was about two-thousand words longer, but I decided the turn them into a nice little chapter for next time. I HAD LOADS OF FUN WRITING THIS ONE. :D Hopefully it should show. I hope you enjoy!
The sun had started to dip below the horizon by the time the four Beatles and their female companion turned onto Garial Lane. The narrow street was lined with parked cars, and the houses hummed with life as their owners settled down for the evening. There were a scattering of wind-swept street trees, and graffiti was scrawled across most front fences, the metallic scribbles beginning to blend into the fading wood and bricks. Halfway along the street, there was a two-level apartment block, and it was this modest, minimalist building which happened to be their destination.
Ringo yawned, even more tired after their little adventure around town. His exhaustion was starting to affect the rest of the group, and they had quickly decided to bunker down for the night. Hayley had happily volunteered her apartment as their temporary accommodation, and couldn't believe how her day was ending. This morning, the most eventful thing she'd been looking forward to was signing out of Oxford, and now after a slight misadventure on the bus home, she had the Beatles sleeping over. Best. Day. Ever.
The merry group chatted and laughed as they walked along, the boys' stomachs full of food. She couldn't believe they had eaten so much. She'd taken them to one of her favourite places – a pizzeria near Hyde Park. They'd eaten almost two pizzas each, and still had room for salad, garlic bread, some pasta, and gelato. Of course, she'd had to pay for it all, but it was worth it, to see them all looking adorable with chocolate dried on the corners of their wide smiles, and watch them fail miserably at eating spaghetti.
Once the five of them had been cramped around a table, they had gotten on remarkably well. The four musicians seemed to be part of the brilliant minority of her acquaintances who appreciated her humour – heck, they shared her sense of humour. She smiled quietly so herself, as she remembered a period in her adolescence when she had felt so disconnected from everyone around her, she thought she had been born in the wrong era. Forging such a strong, immediate bond with these four Liverpudlian lads from the sixties brought the thought to her mind once more.
With Hayley at the front of their merry party, they reached the small apartment building, and she eased open the shrill, short metal front gate, beckoning the four boys through. Cautiously, they approached the front door, a thick wooden monstrosity with bubbled-glass panelling, and peered through.
"Why does it feel like we're breaking in?" John asked, running the tips of his fingers along the bumps in the glass. Hayley rolled her eyes. All evening, the four of them had pestered her with question after question after question, but John had definitely been the most inquisitive. Or at least, the one who asked the most ridiculous questions. It had been quite a challenge for her to hide the fact that the young men weren't from this era. She'd attempted to impress upon them the importance of feigning nonchalance when seeing all these new technologies and ways of life, but they still would let their curiosity dictate their actions; staring at something, poking something, asking her about something.
"Because you don't belong here?" she suggested, rifling through her bag for the key.
"Probably." He stood back from the door. "George, Paul – you didn't happen to bring your guitars, did you?"
The boys rolled their eyes as Hayley used her shoulder to shove the door open.
"Of course. I've been keeping mine concealed about me person all evening." Paul said sardonically, gesturing vaguely to his jacket. George just smirked and looked up at the night sky.
"I have one you can borrow, if you want." Hayley offered, and the three guitarists looked at her in surprise.
She stepped into the small foyer, and walked up to the four letterboxes on the far wall. Checking her mail, she slid the letters into her bag, and turned back to the boys. "Alright, listen up. There are four families who live here – on the ground floor, there's the Jameson's-" she pointed to a door on the left, "-and the Chan's-" she gestured to the right, "-and then there's old Mrs. Dubose and me on the top floor." She indicated to a staircase next to the front entrance. "Rule number one; never feed Mrs. Jameson garlic – she's allergic."
They looked at her patiently, Ringo loosening his tie.
"Also, don't bother any of them. I'm probably not allowed to have five people in a two-person apartment anyway, but seeing as how I'm leaving on Monday, I'm going to ignore it just this once, and stick it to the man."
John skipped to the staircase, and leapt up two steps. "Where's ye bedroom, woman?"
She rolled her eyes, and continued. "If any of them find out that you're here, you're screwed, so just . . . don't leave my apartment."
"What if it's on fire?" Paul asked, taking off his jacket now that they were indoors, and flinging it over his shoulder.
"If my apartment's on fire, it was probably your fault in the first place, so you can chain yourself to the kitchen sink and reap your rewards." She started over to where John was, on the stairs. "Ask me before doing anything, except . . . you know, the basics."
Ringo mock-saluted, and George nodded exaggeratedly. John, feigning ignorance, asked, "What would that be, miss? Climbing into your bed during the night?"
She quickly ran up the two steps to where he was standing, and punched him hard in the arm. "I know you're not dumb, Lennon. I'm tired, I'm stressed, I'm about to move continents, and I'm highly overwhelmed at the moment. Don't test my patience." He looked at her with wide eyes, surprised at her outburst. The others looked at her in a similar way, confused at her sudden mood swing.
She immediately felt guilty. She just hadn't wanted the Beatles, the four men she had idolised her entire life, to think she was some kind of pushover, an innocent little girl who blushed as soon as one of them said something the least bit dirty. She wanted them to consider her one of the lads. Though it was true, what she had said. She felt exhausted. "I . . . I'm sorry." She cleared her throat. "I didn't mean . . . that came out wrong. . ."
"It's okay, love," John said softly, eyes apologetic. "I should've realised that you've been through just as much as we have today."
She felt the sting in his words, though he mayn't have intended any. He was right; they'd all had a long day. If anything, the time-travelling quartet deserved to be grouchier than she did.
"Come on," she murmured, climbing up the stairs. Paul, Ringo and George looked to John, and he shrugged, following her up to the first floor. The stairs were narrow, and covered in threadbare green carpeting, worn thin by the years of feet trekking up and down. They came out onto a small landing, and looked around.
The walls were covered in psychedelic wallpaper, brightly-coloured swirling patterns churning like globs in lava lamps across the aging walls. The once-vibrant wallpaper was faded from the sunlight, which leaked in during the day through the heavy black drapes shrouding the large lone window, and had started to peel away from the damp-affected walls. There was a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling, dimly lighting their path, and the same green carpet which covered the stairs continued on up here, running from wall to wall. Two doors interrupted the flowing pattern on the walls, and Hayley led them over to the one painted purple.
Her eyes flickering down to the floor as her embarrassment reddened her cheeks, she fumbled again for a key within her bag. The boys, picking up on her shame, stood back awkwardly, without a word, as she opened the door. None of them wanted to put a foot wrong with her, so they kept their mouths shut.
She pushed the door open, and flicked a switch on the wall, turning on the lights. She held the door open for them, and they filed in quietly.
As soon as they stepped in, they all breathed a sigh of relief. Her apartment wasn't as dilapidated and neglected as the rest of the building; in fact, it was quite homely.
"Well, thank God for that," Ringo said, rather tactlessly.
Hayley knew what they were thinking, and chuckled softly. "Yeah, it's not that bad. It mightn't be the Ritz, but it's warm, comfortable, and cockroach-free." She smiled at them, before depositing her well-travelled bag onto the small dining table, and opening her mail.
While she sat at the table, the boys had a quick look around. There was one bathroom, clean and filled with the mint-sweet fragrance of toothpaste, one bedroom, which they politely left alone, a well-loved kitchen, with a selection of herbs growing on the windowsill, a combined lounge and dining room, and, finally, a marvellous room that they immediately fell in love with.
Wandering back to the young woman rubbing her temples and staring at an assortment of bank statements, John asked, "Oi, lass, what's that room over there for?" He gestured to the room, and the other three lads poked their heads out the door, interested in her explanation.
She smiled fondly, remembering the hours she had spent transforming it after her old roommate had moved out. "It's my sanctuary."
"Like, what they do with peacocks?" Ringo asked sleepily, eliciting scornful looks from all the others.
"No. . ." she said slowly, shaking her head. "Like what they do with crazy people when they start talking to themselves."
"Oh, okay, makes sense," he said thoughtfully. George rolled his eyes, and slapped the drummer over the back of the head affectionately.
"Don't be such a dill, Starkey. You're making us look bad."
"Hey, I'm just tired, is all!"
Paul looked away from the bickering pair, and continued the conversation John had started. "What's it for?"
Looking down at the papers in her hand, black with ink, she sighed, and vowed to get around to them later. She stood, and walked over to them. She cast her gaze around the room, and ran her hand affectionately along the shelves lining the room. This room was her favourite place in the world.
The walls were lined with bookcases, which overflowed with books of all shapes and sizes. The books were placed two-deep, in order to maximise space, and some had even been wedged in sideways on top of other books. The wonderfully musty smell of decade-old paper and ink leached into the very air, and she inhaled deeply, savouring the nostalgic smell, and the emotions it conjured. In one corner of the room, there was an antique writing desk, littered with paper, pens, textbooks and CDs, still covered in the clutter she had needed for her assignment the night before. In the middle sat a newly-restored typewriter, which she tried to use for as much as she could. She'd been known to use it to write a shopping list, birthday cards, and even her uni assignments. She loved it, but still couldn't imagine living without her laptop, which rested in one of the thin drawers beneath the desk. The final element of her beloved haven rested in the opposite corner, bringing balance and harmony to the room's lay-out. It was a small, honey-coloured upright piano, which she had been amazingly lucky enough to find at a second-hand sale, shortly after starting at Oxford. There were piles of manuscript scattered around, and a guitar was propped up against the wall next to it. At the moment, the lid was open, and the music for Beethoven's 'Moonlight Sonata' rested above the keys.
"Whaddya mean, 'what's it for'? Isn't it kinda obvious?" she teased, waggling her eyebrows.
"Well, yeah, but why is it the way it is?" Paul asked again, fatigue obviously reducing his capacity for wordplay.
John scoffed, and walked over to the piano. "Paulie, never be a writer. I don't think the English language could survive." He sat down, and started to play something that sounded reminiscent of 'Please, Please Me'. The others immediately picked up on his musical wavelength, and started to hum along absent-mindedly as they scanned her bookshelves for something they recognised, Ringo tapping a beat out against his thigh.
Her heart froze as she realised what she was watching. She was observing what was, in her opinion, the greatest band ever, in create mode. This was how things such as Abbey Road, The White Album, Revolver, and so many others, had come about. Almost a decade's worth of music had resulted from their musical chemistry, and lyrical genius. She scolded herself for being such a fangirl, and banished these thoughts from her mind.
"To answer your weirdly-worded question, Paul, the books are here because I can't work properly without that magnificent musky perfume, and I love to read. I've always wanted to have a library like this."
John abruptly stopped playing, and spun around to face them. "You love to read?"
She was about to answer his pointless query, but she caught sight of a certain book by a certain Lennon fellow, and flew across the room. She hastily snatched it, and stuffed it under her top. "Oh, yes. Absolutely. Reading is brilliant," she answered vaguely, acting nonchalant.
They looked at her oddly.
"I'm beginning to think that you're a tad strange, lass. At first I thought it was just the future, but, no, now I'm pretty sure it's just you." John stood up from the piano, and stepped toward her, eyeing the book-shaped lump under her t-shirt. He wanted to see what she was keeping from them.
"A-and the desk?" Paul stammered, puzzled by her weird behaviour.
She swatted John's meddling hands away, and looked up to the handsome bass player. "I'm a writer. Well, I say writer. . . " she trailed off, wrapping her arms around her stomach in an attempt to keep John from getting at his future book.
"Well, what are you, then?" George asked, muttering his first words in quite a while. He definitely had been living up to his reputation of being the Quiet Beatle.
"Well, I want to be a writer, and I do write, though only mediocre drivel. But up until this morning, I've been too busy to write that much."
"Why?" Paul asked, as George grabbed John and held his arms firmly behind his back to stop him pestering Hayley.
"I'm a- I mean, I was a student, at Oxford, for three years. I handed in my last assignment just this morning. I'm a free woman." She chuckled darkly. "If only I had the slightest clue what to do with my newfound freedom."
"You could work for the lads at Playboy. Or, if you really wanna be a writer, you could write some wonderfully graphic bodice-rippers," John suggested, trying to wrestle his arms out of George's strong hold.
"You could go travelling. That's what people normally do," Ringo suggested quietly, using the bookshelves to prop himself up. He really was tired. Being a drummer used a lot of energy.
"You could come and work for us," George offered, grinning widely as he restrained the struggling John. "We're gonna be big, one day soon. Real big."
"You don't know how tempting that is," she admitted, knowing that it could never happen.
"What about the piano?" Paul asked, eyes raking over it appraisingly, the way most teenage boys look at half-naked girls in magazines.
"I've always had one around, and this one was a bargain. I'd left my old one back home, see." She drifted over to it and ran a pale hand along the keys. "It's actually my job."
"What do you do?"
She cleared her throat. "I, ah, I play at weddings. Sometimes I play as part of a little band-like thing." They looked at her blankly. "Hey, I'm a student, for crying out loud – I need the money!" They still remained stony-faced. "Don't judge me!"
"Oh, we're judging you, all right," John said, and the others nodded in agreement.
She scowled, and turned away. "That's the room, end of story. Now, let's set you up for bed before Ringo collapses."
She walked into the living room, and pushed the dining table against one wall. She then started to clear the floor, picking up clothes, books and other assorted bric-a-brac. She stood, and saw them hovering in the archway, watching her.
"We're not really judging you, you know," George murmured.
"Yeah, it's pretty cool, what you do," Paul added. "Do you ever get to play an organ? I've always wanted to muck around on one."
She started to answer, when John interrupted with his usual dirty comment. "I know an organ you can play." He winked at her, and George thumped him. Ringo ignored them, and sat on the couch, sinking into the plush navy-blue cushions. He curled up into a ball, and squeezed his eyes shut. Hayley smiled at his cuteness.
"I have some spare toothbrushes you can have, and I s'pose you could try and borrow some of my pj's, though they mightn't fit." She imagined them squeezing into her TARDIS pyjamas, and giggled. "Now, I'll need your help in carrying out the mattresses. Any volunteers?"
"Sure," John offered. "I volunteer Paul. And George."
The two rolled their eyes, but didn't object. They were true gentlemen.
"Awesome."
Hayley led them to her bedroom, and they kept their eyes glued to the purple floor. She reached under the bed, and started pulling out two single mattresses. She passed them on to the boys, who carried them into the lounge room. They walked in to find John flicking Ringo, and easily dodging the attempts made by the poor boy to stop him.
"Oh, leave him alone, Johnny," Paul said exasperatedly. "You've been right silly today, you have."
"Yeah," George seconded. "And so you can help Hayley fetch the other mattress."
The girl chuckled at how this was obviously seen as a punishment. When John pulled a face, she said, "Oh, don't worry, Johnny-boy – it's not as bad as you think it is."
Making sure the other three knew what they were doing when they assembled the beds, she led John back into the psychedelic landing, and up to the other apartment door.
"Now, don't say anything," she warned. "Mrs. Dubose has a very weak heart. Your looks alone will probably test it."
He raised an eyebrow. "Was that a compliment, love?"
"No." She knocked a few times on the door, and waited patiently for her elderly neighbour to shuffle toward it. Eventually, the door swung open to reveal a white-haired, shrivelled woman with skin like pale parchment.
"Oh, hello dear," she croaked. "Who's yer friend?"
Hayley smiled. "Hi, Mrs. Dubose. This is Aaron." Before he could have a chance to talk, she continued. "Mrs. Dubose, I have some friends staying over tonight, and I was wondering if I could borrow your spare mattress again, if that's alright."
The old lady smiled. "Of course, dear. You're such a good girl. It's where it always is, you know."
"Thanks, Mrs. Dubose."
The elderly lady stood aside, and Hayley walked into the apartment, which reeked of cat urine. John reluctantly followed, knowing he had no choice. He followed her to a small storage room, and helped her carry out a large double mattress, stepping over cats, and resisting the urge to drop the mattress and pet them. He loved cats.
Mrs. Dubose moved out of their way when they reached the door, and they carefully guided the mattress through the narrow doorway. After a few moments, they had cleared it, and carried it over to Hayley's front door.
"Thanks Mrs. Dubose!" Hayley called from across the landing, as the old lady closed her door. "She's a nice old lady."
"Anyone with that many cats is slightly bonkers, though, you have to admit."
"Oh, definitely."
They carried the mattress into the living room, and dumped it onto the floor. The others had just finished making up the other beds, with sheets and blankets Hayley had given them before leaving, and looked up with a sense of achievement.
"Okay, you guys can make this one as well, while I get ready for bed. I'm knackered. Then you can have the bathroom."
She stood for a moment, trying to imprint the image of John, Paul, George and Ringo in her living room onto her mind, and then walked into her bedroom and started to get undressed.
Sitting on the edge of her king-single bed, she unlaced her Converse and kicked them off, making them fly across the room into a large jumble of shoes. She then peeled off her jeans, and carefully folded them, laying them on her dressing table. She pulled her t-shirt off over her head, and unclasped her bra. Tossing them carefully onto the neatly-folded jeans, she reached under her pillow for her red silk boxers, and matching red tank top. Sliding them on, she allowed herself to daydream about the proximity of the four handsome, attractive lads to her bedroom. This was eerily similar to how many of her fantasies began.
She stepped into a pair of warm, woolly slippers, and walked to the bathroom, hearing giggling coming from the living room. She quickly brushed her teeth, washed her face and hid all embarrassing items before giving the room a short burst of air-freshener. She walked out feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, and even less of a need to sleep than before.
She walked to the living room to tell the boys that the bathroom was free, but got distracted by what they were up to.
George had rolled himself up in a doona, and John and Paul had rested one end of the larger mattress on the couch, to make it into a ramp. Ringo rested at the bottom of the ramp, also wrapped in a doona. John and Paul then carried the George-bundle to the top of the ramp, and dropped it, cackling wildly. The laughing guitarist rolled down the angled mattress, and smashed into the drummer, making him spin off across the carpet.
"This is what happens when you're left to do normal, mundane things," she scolded. "You have to make them fun, don't you?"
John looked at Paul with a calculating glimmer in his eye, and then Paul looked at George.
"She's right. George, gimme the doona."
George reluctantly stood and unravelled himself, and handed the doona to Paul.
"Now, what were we supposed to do with this, Hayley, if it wasn't to make cocoons?" asked John, looking at her innocently. "Surely, making a cocoon is the only thing they're good for."
She was wary of the intelligent boy, and cautiously replied, "You'd be surprised, Lennon, at the amount of things a doona can be used for."
"Well, obviously, you've never been in a cocoon."
She looked at him warningly. "Don't you dare-"
"Now!" he yelled, and Paul ran toward her, throwing the doona around her and wrapping her up tightly. She squealed, and started squirming against the silky fabric. Ringo threw off his blanket-y restraints, and he and George ran over to help John and Paul pin her down. Once she was tightly bound, the four of them sat on her.
"It's time to start talking, sugar," John drawled in a harsh, mid-western accent, straight out of an old-fashioned crime movie. Underneath the thick layers of blanket, she started giggling, and played along.
"Oh, please sir! I don't know nothin'! Yer wastin' yer time, you is!"
He turned to the others, eyebrow raised, and whispered, "I don't believe her, lads. There's nowhere for her to run now. I suggest we start our . . . cross-examination."
They smirked evilly, and slid off her quickly. They paused, poised to attack, and waited for John to deliver the final warning.
"This is it, sugar. You have one more chance. Do you have anything to say?"
"Go to hell!"
"That's it, lads!" he ordered. "Attack!"
They started to quickly roll her across the carpet, pushing her with all their might. She laughed deliriously as she spun around, getting dizzy. The boys started to laugh as well, taking delight in torturing her so.
After a few minutes, they guided her to a stop, and sat on her once again. She struggled to regain her breath as they crushed her lungs.
"Now, doll-face, have you got anything to say?"
"Fine, fine! Ask away!"
"Do we make it?" Ringo asked. "Are we famous in the future?"
She froze, wondering whether it was a good idea to say anything. "Uh, your music definitely lives on. And you receive the recognition you deserve."
They started whooping, and high-fived.
A wide grin on his face, Paul admitted he'd guessed as much. The others asked how, and he told them how Hayley had known who they were without them ever telling her their names.
Hayley cursed quietly under her breath.
"Do we all fall in love?" George asked nervously, not wanting his friends to think he was asking a sissy question.
"Multiple times," Hayley replied. "And occasionally even with other people."
Ringo and John poked her, and tried not to laugh.
"Who's your favourite?" John asked, for some reason hoping to hear her say his name. "Surely everyone nowadays has a favourite Beatle."
She thought her answer over carefully. "Pete Best."
"Pete?" Paul exclaimed. "Surely, he can't be. . ."
While they were still in a state of surprise, she used all her power to throw them off, and they landed safely on the mattresses and pillows covering the floor. Standing, the doona still draped over her, she raised her arms victoriously, and started singing the Australian national anthem. "She wins again!" she hollered, running a victory lap around the room, while the bemused boys watched.
Suddenly, running past the kitchen, she caught sight of a Post-It note on the fridge, and remembered why she'd put it there. Crestfallen, she returned to the boys, and dumped the doona on the floor.
"I have to go to work in the morning," she said, "which means that I probably won't be here when you wake up. I'll make your breakfast before I leave, if you want, but you have to promise me that you won't leave the apartment. I should be back by mid-afternoon – it's an early wedding."
The Beatles, particularly John and George, seemed disappointed by this, but still promised to stay in the apartment.
"The, uh, the bathroom's free, so I guess I'll just leave you to get some sleep." She was reluctant to leave them, in case they had vanished by the time she woke up, like the dream she just knew they were all products of.
They'd all kicked off their shoes, pulled off their jackets, undone their ties, and rolled up their sleeves. Somehow they'd managed to eat all that spaghetti without getting one drop of sauce on their crisp white shirts. She was quite proud of them.
"Good night, love," George smiled.
"Night, and thanks again," Paul said gratefully, running a hand through his hair.
"Good night, Hayley," Ringo yawned, blinking quickly to keep his eyes open.
"Yeah, night," John said brusquely. He stood up abruptly and walked to the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him.
She sighed exasperatedly, and bade the other three good night.
As she slid into bed, and turned off her bedside lamp, she wondered if her dreams really had come true. She could hear the band of brothers talking quietly amongst each other, and the steady rumble of their voices sounded perfectly at home in the cosy apartment. She silently congratulated herself for not fainting once since stumbling upon them. She just hoped she could keep it up.