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Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize.

Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night

Chapter Three: Happiness, Crappiness, and Spaghetti

~LEAH~

It was one of those mornings when Leah woke up and just felt happy.

She lay staring at the ceiling which had the beginnings of sunlight creeping up to it, trying to trace the reason for her utter contentment. It was a dream, she thought - but the dream had erased itself, leaving nothing but a vague, untraceable happiness. Oh, well. Leah got up and went to the bathroom to get ready: today she was going to get a job. A real, proper job, because she didn't like to deplete her savings too much. Stevie had been a strip dancer. It paid enough, too - Stevie had been pretty comfortable where she was - but Leah didn't want to strip dance anymore. Besides, being a stripper in a sidey strip club in the back alleys of Liverpool, early sixties, was much less safe than being a strip dancer in a big, well-known strip club in the 2008 in New York.

Leah threw a tie-dyed bedspread over the mattress on the floor and then put on her black boots and went out of the door, humming No Woman, No Cry to herself. Today was definitely a big start.

~GEORGE~

It was one of those mornings when George woke up and just felt crappy.

He lay staring at the ceiling of his room; his head felt slightly woozy when he moved it. The after effects of last night's alcohol? He didn't remember drinking that much ... He rolled out of bed and groaned as his head whirled. George paused, kneeling on the floor, debating whether he should just get back into bed again, but Meg had shifted to take up his side of the bed, too, and now there was no pushing her back. Unless he woke her, which he wasn't so keen on doing ... Besides, he had work too. Maybe he could get ready and then crash out on the couch downstairs. Oh, wait, John was probably crashed out on the couch. George decided to get ready anyway. Maybe a bath and a cup of tea would make him feel better.

Mistake. The geyser was not working, so the water was icy cold, and the weight of his wet hair added to the headache. George decided that that cup of tea would be useful just about now. Downstairs, standing in the empty kitchen, George was completely dumbfounded by the realization that he wasn't hungry. That, that now, had to be trouble. Food was the top priority of George's morning. He was never not hungry. Something was wrong ... He had a cup of tea, groaned loudly to the sleeping apartment - curse those lucky art school bastards, John and Stu - and then stumbled out of the door.

And nearly bumped into Leah, who was coming up the stairs.

She jumped lithely away just in time, and George blushed, embarrassed by his clumsiness. She didn't seem to mind, though. In fact, she looked happy and breezy, like something really good had just happened. 'Morning,' said George. Leah beamed brightly. 'Hey!' She stopped and then looked concerned. 'Are you okay? You look kind of peaky.'

George made a face. 'Not so good today, I guess.' Leah frowned, then stepped forward and lightly touched her fingers to his forehead, under his mop-topped hair. Her fingers were cool and gentle. 'You're burning up,' she exclaimed, withdrawing her hand. 'Really high fever, I think.'

George groaned. 'What do I do now?'

'Skip work,' she advised seriously. 'Do you feel weak?'

'Kind of,' muttered George. 'My throat hurts. And my head.'

'Sounds like some kind of viral,' said Leah thoughtfully. 'You should probably have a medicine and get some rest.'

'Oh.' George looked back to the door unwillingly. Behind that was Meg, and he didn't feel like lying next to her, because then she'd want to cuddle, and if he told her he didn't feel like cuddling, her blue eyes would fill with hurt, and then he would feel guilty and apologize and then he'd have to cuddle with her, when really he only wanted to lie flat on his back and die. George considered kicking Paul out of his bed. He realized that he'd been silent for a long stretch of time and that Leah looked like she was questioning his sanity. 'It's just, I don't really want to go back in there,' he admitted, cocking his he

'She's a little clingy,' said George defensively, stumbling a little under the weight of that arched eyebrow.

'Why are you still dating her then?' she asked.

George shrugged. 'She's pretty.'

'You can come up to my place, if you like. I have to go somewhere for a bit, but you can sleep there.' George hesitated; it was a tempting offer, and Leah did not look like the kind of bird who'd invite him to her apartment just to shag him. Plus she said she was going somewhere, right? And his head was spinning ... spinning ... spinning ...

'Yes, if that's alright,' said George, holding on to the railing to steady himself. They went up to her apartment and she unlocked it. There was a beaded bauble hanging on the end of her ring of keys. She opened the door and shut it behind George, who stood looking around the room: it was smaller than their apartment, only one room with a bathroom and kitchen attached, with not much furnishing. There was a mattress on the floor covered with a bright tie-dyed bedspread and some pillows, a couple of travelling bags, and some cupboards in the walls. There were stacks of books piled up next to the mattress, a lamp with a bright red scarf draped around it, and all around the room were scented candles. George wiggled his eyebrows and smirked, thinking about the suggestive comments John and Pete might have made if they were here, then realized that Leah was not looking at him: she'd gone into the kitchen. 'Just sit anywhere,' called Leah from the kitchen. 'I know it's not much, but I'm planning on getting more stuff.' George he looked around and noticed there wasn't a chair, and wondered if he should just sit on the floor. Leah returned with a glass of water and a handful of tablets, which she held out to him. George started to take all the tablets, but she shook her head and said, 'One is good.' So he took one and gulped it down.

'You can crash there,' she waved her hand at the mattress. 'I have to go get some stuff. I'll be back in a couple of hours. Don't let anyone else in, okay?'

'Sure,' mumbled George. 'Thanks a bazillion.'

Before Leah had left the room, he had crashed out on the mattress and fallen into a deep, dizzying sleep.

~LEAH~

Leah hoisted her bags onto her shoulders and hurried through the rain: for once, she did not appreciate its untimely appearance. She hauled herself up the stairs, buckling under the weight of her bags, and shouldered her door open, catching it just before the wind threw it to slam back against the door frame - she had forgotten that she'd let George sleep in her apartment. Looking back, she wasn't so sure that was a good idea: she'd just blurted it out, because he really did look sick, and - she knew all about clingy relationships and how irritating they could get. And he seemed like a nice guy, but who was she to know that he wouldn't stuff all money into his pockets and scram? Not that she had much to steal. And, besides. He was George Harrison. The George Harrison of the Beatles.

Leah had a job now, too. A waitress in a café. Not ideal, but it would do.

The George Harrison was still splayed out on her mattress, curled into a ball for warmth. Leah threw a blanket over him, because he looked like he was cold, and then unloaded the things she'd bought: basic groceries and other things she desperately needed - like socks and shampoo and then she'd stumbled upon a rather lovely leather jacket at a thrift store. It was beautiful, black and soft and though it was probably a guy's jacket it was small enough to fit her. She haggled a little with the girl at the counter and finally got it at a price that didn't pinch her pockets. Leah took it out from the bottom of her bag and carefully hung it up. This was to be the beginning of a good friendship, she decided: she loved the jacket. Plus, it would help her fit into the whole Liverpool-Cavern-Club scene.

Leah was in the middle of making her first ever properly cooked meal in the apartment when George woke up. She turned around to see him standing in the doorway of the kitchen, looking groggy. 'Hey,' she said, stirring spaghetti sauce on the stove. 'Feel any better?'

'Sort of, thanks,' said George huskily. His eyes landed on the spaghetti. 'Umm ...' he began, looking embarrassed.

'Yeah, you can have some.' Leah thrust two plates, some cutlery and glasses into his hands. 'Just dump that on the table, this'll be done in a sec.'

George twisted his fork through the spaghetti and put it in his mouth. That tasted good. Maybe not as good as his mom's, but ... oh, what was he saying? This was as good as his mom's. He stopped, realising that he'd scarfed down three-fourths of his previously heaped plate and Leah was laughing silently. 'This is really good,' he said, a little late.

'Thanks,' she said. 'Secret recipe. Want to know the secret?' she asked. George nodded eagerly and leaned forward. 'I got it out of a jar.'

George blinked, and then let out a loud laugh. For some reason, he found that just hilarious. Leah waited for him to stop slapping the table, amused. George subsided and finished off his plate. There was none left, so he scooped up her plate and his and took it to the kitchen. Leah followed him with the remaining dishes and together they began to work on them in the sink. George glanced towards Leah. She did not seemed fazed by this. Being a girl, George thought she'd be giggling and blushing by now, but Leah wasn't even looking at him: she just took a dish out of his hands to wash it. George took it back and scrubbed it himself, but this did not catch her attention either. She was focused on the job.

Leah finished rinsing her pile of dishes and left them to dry on the dish rack, then dried her hands on a towel and went out of the kitchen, to do what, George did not know. He had bubbles up to his elbows, so he quickly slapped them off. He felt loads better now. His head barely hurt, and though his throat was a little sore, he didn't feel feverish at all.

Leah had folded the blanket he'd slept in and put it neatly at the end of her mattress. She'd put on the radio: it was playing something Buddy Holly. She grinned at him and bumped her hip against his as she went back to the kitchen. She returned as second later with a bar of chocolate. 'Sorry, I don't have anything else,' she giggled, snapping it in half and giving one half to George.

'Mine's smaller,' George inspected his half. Leah squinted at it, then snapped off a bit of his, popped it in her mouth, and handed the shortened piece back to him. 'Hey!' exclaimed George. 'No fair!' He tried to steal Leah's chocolate, but she ducked out of the way and ate it. George resignedly ate his piece. 'You owe me chocolate,' he muttered darkly.

'You owe me spaghetti and seven hours on your bed,' retorted Leah. George raised his eyebrows. 'Don't get your hopes up,' she told him. 'I didn't mean it in a pervy way.' George blushed. 'Pe-erv,' she sang softly.

'I am not!' said George defensively. Then he remembered Meg. She'd be wondering where he was. Leah opened the door. 'See ya around, George,' she said.

'Umm. Do I have to go right now-'

With a spark in her eye, Leah said seriously but not unkindly, 'Get out.'

George got out.

Good, bad, middling? I know how this story will end, but I'm not sure how I'm going to go about getting there ... I'm just sort of playing around right now. Please review and tell me what you think! :) Thanks for reading. -Jen.