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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 Eight: She's Well Acquainted with the Touch of the Velvet Hand
~LEAH~
Leah was an insomniac. It always took her hours to fall asleep, and tonight was no better.
So she still lay awake while George's breathing slowed, deep and even; he'd fallen asleep on his stomach, leaving his back exposed till the sheet covered his body from the waist downwards, shoulders bunched up and one arm slung around Leah. In the darkness that was slightly mitigated by a handful of candles lit around the apartment, his skin looked unnaturally flawless. With his dark hair mussed and falling into his closed eyes, his face composed in sleep, breathing softly, Leah thought he was sort of beautiful; but his arm around her didn't feel right, so she lifted it and got out. Putting on some clothes, she tiptoed into the kitchen, silently, got a drink of water and then sat at the table with a book, Memoirs of a Geisha, something she'd picked up from the antique store. She couldn't read it though; her mind was all full of the fact that she just slept with George Harrison - and, even though it felt absolutely amazing - she didn't feel anything for him. Alright, maybe she'd had a little crush on him - he was pretty good-looking, and he was a future Beatle, if that wasn't enough, she didn't know what was. But she certainly wasn't going to start a relationship with him - he was going to be a Beatle. He wouldn't have time for her. And moreover, would she have time for him? Leah did not plan on staying in Liverpool for too long; it was enjoyable, but a bit of a drag. She could do better somewhere else. Maybe she was ready for that trip to the sixties she'd always wanted.
But it wasn't so easy to just sleep with George Harrison and forget about it.
Leah could do that with other boys. That was just fine; so long as they weren't deluding themselves that she wanted something real from them. But George was a friend ... and while a future Beatle wouldn't make the best boyfriend, what with the attention and press and buttloads of girls, Leah valued friendship. More than love. George probably didn't want anymore out of her either; he was, after all, just getting over his ex-girlfriend, Maggie or whatever. For a fifties girl, Leah knew she didn't fit in. She was a weirdo in this time. She was a weirdo in all times, but at least the people from other times were okay with that, mostly. After a little bit she put the book away and lay down on the mattress again, and fell asleep.
~GEORGE~
George woke up with his face pressed into a cool vanilla-scented pillow. He felt incredibly comfortable in this position - since when was his bed so comfy? And then he remembered that he was not in his bed. He rolled over and saw Leah asleep next to him. Her face was covered with her hair, but she was wearing clothes - which made George suddenly aware of his own nakedness. His boxers were lying right next the mattress, so he pulled them on and then decided not to bother with the rest.
John would be proud.
George lay on his back and considered his position. Alright, Leah was slightly weird, but he liked it. She was interesting, she liked to have fun and George liked hanging out with her. And she was pretty. He turned over to look at her, but he couldn't see her face. He noticed a tattoo on her shoulder: a moon. George traced his hand over it. It was beautiful. He grinned; he was too charged to fall asleep, so he sat up and went over to the kitchen to get a cup of that leftover tea. He took it over to the table and sat down.
Then he caught sight of an envelope on the table. It was right in front of him. It was staring him in the eye. George craned his neck forward slightly: under the white paper of the envelope, he could make out some bright colours. A photograph! George glanced towards Leah. She was asleep. He couldn't help it any more; setting the tea cup down on the table, George slid out the photographs and looked at them.
The first was of girl of eleven or twelve, quite young - innocent, with the remnants of that childhood chubbiness still persisting - judging by her caramel skin and dark hair, she was probably Leah's sister, or something. Or maybe a younger photo of Leah herself. Same wide brown eyes, and all that. But vulnerable. Not the strong, independent figure Leah cut. On the back of the photograph was scribbled a date and a name: Zanora Elva Hendrixon. George wondered who she was. Exotic name, he thought.
The next photograph was of exactly the same girl, but in this photo, she was older. And though she, too, was young, she looked confidently at the camera, head held straight up; determined, bold. On the back of this photograph was scribbled the name Fayne Pattie Wilde. George frowned, holding up the two photographs together. He could have sworn they were the same girl photographed at different ages. Their stances might have been different, but in every other way, their features were exact. Puzzled, George looked at the next one.
This one was a photograph of the same girl, older still. In this one she must be about, fifteen, sixteen? Not much older than Fayne Pattie Wilde. But her brown eyes sparkled, and she smiled, wide and beautiful. A happy smile. George only just realized that the other two girls had not been smiling. Her name was Aurora.
The next photograph showed a girl who was barely older than Aurora, but so radically different that George was positive they were not the same person. This girl's hair hung in front of her face, hiding it, as though they were curtains that blocked the world out. Her face was dark, shadowed with sadness and an air of someone who didn't care much for living. The photograph said that her name was Korra.
Now he was down to the last two pictures in the envelope. Identical to all the other girls in the photographs, but the oldest, most confident, happy - defined. Stevie, her name was, had bright beads braided into her hair, earrings dangling on from her ears, and looked like she'd be fun to hang out with - the kind of person who made the most of every day.
And the last picture was of Leah.
George laid out all the pictures on the table, in the right order. Were they all sisters? But the dates said otherwise; if Leah was about seventeen, eighteen, maybe nineteen, now, then she had to be eleven around the same time the photograph of Zanora Elva Hendrixon was taken. And if George had to picture Leah was an eleven-year-old, that would exactly what she looked like.
But these pictures couldn't all be of Leah. They were so ... different. One person couldn't change so many times. One person couldn't be so many different people ... did that make sense? George sucked in a breath and then quickly put the pictures back in the envelope and slapped it onto the table. He drained his teacup, rinsed it in the kitchen sink and dunked it on the wash board.
Should I make George and Leah have a proper relationship now? I wasn't planning to, but I'll take a vote, so tell me what you think in a review :) Thanks for reading! -Jen.