Michelle (a beatles fic) ☆彡

Chapter 2 - If I Needed Someone

"There y'are, love. Need anything else?" Paul asked a shaken, yet amazed Michelle, who was sat on a wooden stool in the Beatles' studio, wrapped up in a thick, fluffy blanket with a freshly brewed cup of tea in one hand and a newspaper in the other, which was rather useful as it gave her an idea of when exactly she was: 1964, sometime around October.

"No, I'm alright, thank you." the woman fumbled over her words, in complete disbelief.
"Um, Paul?"

"Yeah, darl?"

Dazed and not fully in her right mind, the girl began to ask Paul: "Could you do me a quick favour and pinch me? Just on my arm or something, I just want to make sure I'm not dre- ow!"

Paul had surprisingly long nails, especially for a bass player, which meant he delivered quite a harsh pinch.

"Okay, okay. I think I'm awake."

"Yeah, well. That's cause you are." commented John, sarcastically, as he entered the slightly chilly studio and sat down on a stool across from Michelle, removing the ash-grey paper-boy cap from his head to reveal the entirety of his light brown, somewhat shaggy, mop.

"Yeah. I know it's just- wow..." Her mind was both full and empty at the same time. It seemed as though every word in the dictionary could be used to describe her current situation, but also like no word would be fitting enough. Seeing the Beatles in the flesh, right in front of her, talking to her, looking after her, was not something she had planned for the day, but it would be inaccurate to say she was upset by it.

"I think she's a bit starstruck, John." said Paul, forcing out an unconvincing chuckle to make his statement seem a bit more modest.

An awkward silence fell upon the room. It's not that no one wanted to say anything, but rather that, in Paul and John's mind there was nothing suitable to say. Nothing that wouldn't make them seem a bit creepy, anyway. Nonetheless, Michelle began to feel a burdening sensation that she was an unwanted presence.
'Oh, god,' she thought, 'am I Yoko?'

A sudden knock at the door caused her to jerk a little from surprise, making Paul laugh - something which he quickly covered up, trying stealthily, but ineffectively, to disguise it as a cough. In the doorway stood George, with Ringo teetering sheepishly behind him.

The movement of the guitarist's mouth was not unlike that of a cat snarling, his fangs peeping through every few syllables.
"Just here to see... Er... The lady..."

"Oh," 'the lady' smiled, "My name's Michelle."

"Ah, well, how are you doing, Michelle?" asked George, emphasising on 'Michelle'. Leaning against the door frame, she couldn't help but admire his presence - he made her feel so... safe. Something about him radiated comfort and warmth, accompanied by a sense of mystery and enigma. Closed off, yet welcoming. Intimidating, yet reassuring. Cold, yet warm. A perfect balance of qualities, exhumed through everything he did - the way he spoke, the things he said, the way he moved, the way he stood, the way he lived. Never had she been in the presence of someone so-

"Michelle." uttered a nasally voice, making her flinch. Startled, she turned around to identify the source.
John motioned his head towards the dark-haired man in the doorway, "George is talking to you."

"Oh, sorry, I- uh, yeah. I'm... I don't know. This is all very strange." she spluttered, slightly embarrassed that George may have noticed her slip away into a daydream about him.

"Don't blame you." he let out the most charming, genuine chuckle that Michelle had heard in a long time. Everything about this man was so endearing and inviting. She was in complete and utter awe. Pure, unfiltered adoration filled her from top to toe.

Unprepared and unaccustomed to this plethora of emotions and the bombardment of care caused a waterfall of tears to flow uncontrollably from her sensitive eyes, attracting the immediate attention of all four Beatles, who quickly assembled around her to assure her, as if she was having a heart attack and they were paramedics, desperate to save her life.

The soft black sleeve of George's polo-neck jumper met with her face and soaked up her tears, an act which nudged a small smile of gratitude across her red, mascara-tainted cheeks. 

"Everything alright?" he asked, worriedly, kneeling down next to her and placing his comforting hand on her shoulder after tucking a few loose strands of blonde hair behind her ear.

Michelle didn't know how to answer his question. On the one hand, everything was more than alright - the Beatles were looking after her, for God's sake. George Harrison had just wiped her tears from her face and Paul McCartney had made her a cup of tea, which she was still holding in her shaky hand. However, so many queries and worries floated around in her head: how will she get home? Does she have a home? Does she have a family? If this was 1964, then her mother and father haven't been born yet, so she also shouldn't be born. Is she herself? Or is she in some random woman's body? Who is she? How did this happen? Will she ever see her family again? If she does, what will she tell them? Will she tell them anything at all?

Anxiety-riddled thoughts were viciously battling warm feelings of joy and thankfulness, creating a bewildering storm of contradictory emotions within her.

"I'm... okay."

'Okay' was the best word to describe her current status. Both good and bad, but also neither. Smack bang in the middle and alternating between the two. Living, but not thriving, but also not surviving. Just... okay.

"Need a minute? Fresh air?" Ringo piped up. Michelle didn't expect Ringo to be a particularly considerate person, so his comment took her by pleasant surprise. Nodding at his request, she weakly stood up and began to hobble emotionally out of the studio, her legs still rather weak. Thankfully, George quickly came to her aid (once again) to escort her outside. The sensation of his touch on her arm was unlike any other - delicate and wary while also being affirming and secure. Every second that passed gave Michelle something new to admire.