Your Beatle Love Affair ~Season 2~

Your Beatle Love Affair ~Season 2~

Season 2!! This season is dedicated to Yoko Ono, who turned 78 on Feb 18. (And I would like to thank Georgie_Girl for telling me that :))

Chapter 1

It's Only Love


Much to John's dismay, Mimi does not return to Liverpool after you two get engaged. You, however, grow to love Mimi and it appears she is doing the same to you. In fact, you two work on planning your wedding together.
"Honestly, dear, roses are much too dramatic for a wedding," Mimi tells you one day. "Not to mention they are horribly overdone."
Over in the living room, John, who is working on a song, is not pleased with her "suggestions."
"Mimi," he scolds in a low tone. "You've already had your big day. Let (your name) have hers."
She waves her hand in John's direction, as if to dismiss his warning. "Focus on your music, John boy," she tells him.
John growls and looks ready to start an argument, but you give him a Look, silently telling him to let it go. It appears you've been doing that often lately, for both John and Mimi are very argumentative people. John groans and rolls his eyes, but returns to his song.
Just as you return to the wedding planning, the phone rings.
"Hello?" you answer.
"Is this (your name)?" a dark, gruff, angry voice asks.
You're instantly frightened, but still respond, "Yes, who is this?"
"You don't need to know that," the voice says. "But we need to know some things about your fiancé."
"I'm not willing to give away information," you shoot right back, eyebrows raised. "Especially not to people who won't even tell me their names."
The person on the other end seems to... growl. "I work for the government," he states simply, but angrily.
By now, Mimi looks concerned and John looks interested in your conversation. You quickly take the phone into the hallway, fearing either of them overhear your conversation, causing unnecessary drama and worry.
"We have reason to believe your future husband has no right to be in this country," the man says.
"That's impossible," you reply. "John has a green card that doesn't expire for a year and he's currently applying for U.S. citizenship."
"There are other things that need to be taken into consideration, Miss (you last name)," the voice barks. "Your fiancé is a musician, is he not?"
You frown. "That's hardly any of your business, even if you ARE with the government," you bark back. Two can play this game.
"It's our business to make it our business, ma'am," he replies darkly, but something in his tone of voice tells you he doesn't respect you, even if he did call you ma'am.
"I need to go," you say quickly into the phone, not wanting to have this conversation any longer.
"I'm afraid you-" the voice begins, but you rush into the kitchen again slam the phone into the receiver. Fearing the man will call back, you yank the phone cord form the wall.
Looking up, both John and Mimi are staring at you, looking confused, concerned, and interested.
"Who was that, dear?" she asks.
You're normally pretty good at lying, but this time you trip and stumble over your own words. "Uhh... telemarketer," you answer awkwardly.
"That was a pretty long conversation to a telemarketer," John notes, eyebrows raised.
"I, uhh... thought it wasn't one, but then I... found it was," you say, not able to look him in the eye.
You're pretty sure neither John nor Mimi believes you, but they decide to let it go. But a look in both of their eyes tells you they aren't finished yet.
And something in your gut tells you neither is that government worker.


Never did you imagine you would be pregnant on your honeymoon. Never did you imagine you would have to get on a 2 A.M. flight to avoid paparazzi to actually GET to your honeymoon.
But then again, never did you imagine marrying famed Beatle Paul McCartney.
You and Paul decide to go to Paris, the city of romance, for your honeymoon. Both of you have been to America and England, so it had been decided early on that going to a country that was foreign to both of you was in both of your best interest.
"Ahh, isn't it amazing!?" Paul sighs happily, plopping into your rented-apartment bed. "Let's spend all day in here."
You laugh. "We can do that in Liverpool," you argue, but still tumble beside him on the bed.
"The baby wants to be lazy today, too," Paul speaks for your unborn child, resting his hand on your stomach, as he likes to do.
"I'm much closer to him, and he wants to get out and DO things," you reply, smiling.
"Yeah, speaking of that, he thinks you're smothering him," Paul jokes, grinning as well. "Come on, give him some space!"
You laugh. "That's gonna happen."
Paul rolls over and holds you in his arms. It's quiet for a moment. You can feel his warm breath on your neck.
"I can't believe it," he whispers. "I met you no more than about 7 months ago, and here we are, married and expecting a child in three months."
You can't either. "Sometimes it seems like a dream," you say absentmindedly.
Paul slowly runs his fingers through your hair. "Amazing, isn't it?"
You nod, eyes staring off into nothing.
Suddenly, there are more kicks in your stomach. "Uh," you groan.
"What is it?" Paul asks.
"More kicking," you reply, annoyed.
Paul, however, is more than thrilled. "Ooh," he says, excitedly, and once again puts his hands on your tummy.
"Trust me," you respond, groaning. "The thrill wears off with all the internal bruising you receive."
Paul smiles. "I never get tired of it."
You sigh. Paul is such a maternal, romantic man. He would carry the baby for you if he got the chance, but he would never admit that.
"Do you think it will be a boy or a girl?" he asks, eyes not leaving your bulging stomach.
You shrug. "It's heavy enough to be both."
He chuckles again. "Any special cravings?" he asks.
"A hasty, painless birth," you reply. "And a taco."
Paul looks confused. "Wrong country, babe," he replies.
You groan. You knew Mexico would be a much better pregnant-person country.
Outside, you can hear fans screaming, "Paul! Paul! Paul!" in French accents. You've blocked it out for this long, but the fans are getting rougher all the time.
"Do they EVER go away?" you ask, feeling moody.
Paul pecks your forehead. "I can only hear your voice," he lies, but it still sounds sweet.
"You're such a schmoozer," you reply, but can't help but grin at your husband.
YOUR husband.


Finally, FINALLY, you get to see George's Liverpudlian mansion. You're going to be living there just as soon as you can sell your home back in America and become and English citizen. And get married, of course. :))
"Oh, George," you gush as you step through the front door. "It's beautiful."
And it is. You walk in and the first thing you see is a gorgeous grand staircase, leading up to a balcony hallway.
"It's alright," George replies, looking around. "It's definitely not the most beautiful thing here."
You blush and being kissing your wonderful fiancé. He scoops you from the ground and you let out a tiny squeal of shock, joy and fear.
"Where are we going?" you ask, between kisses, as he carries you up the stairs.
He smiles mischievously. "You're a smart girl," he says, and pecks your lips. "Figure it out."
You grin. "I thought we agreed I would be good until the wedding."
"A good girl is just a bad girl who hasn't been caught yet," he whispers, and your ear sweats. You try your hardest not to smile, but it's impossible. He's so sexy!
Sliding into the bedroom, George tosses you onto the bed like a rag doll and you squeal again. He jumps beside you and begins kissing you once again, as though he couldn't stand the half a second when he wasn't.
"You're amazing," you whisper, running your fingers through his moptop.
"Ditto," he replies, and pulls you closer.
Suddenly, you feel something that doesn't feel right at all. It's... wet. On your fingers.
You stop for a moment and check your hand. You scream.
"What's wrong?" George shouts, instantly pulling away, a look of fear in his eyes.
"You're bleeding!" you shriek. "Your arm!"
George looks at his arm and sees that his gunshot wound that appeared to be healing is bleeding.
"Omigod!" you shout. "We've got to get you to the hospital!"
George, strangely, looks calm. "No, no sweetheart, it's not bleeding that much," he says. "Let's just see if it clots."
"Are you kidding!?" you shout. "It's GUSHING!"
George gives you and Look. "Don't be dramatic," he responds, and begins kissing you again. You push him off.
"The mood is gone," you say, and slide out of the bed.
"Damn," George mutters, and gets a towel to control the bleeding.
An hour later, you two are sitting in the bed, pretending to watch the news. Depressing Vietnam stories fill the air. George is still bleeding.
"George, please!" you beg, noticing more and more blood-soaked towels.
"You're overacting," he says, still holding a towel to his wound.
"You're UNDERracting!" you shout. "You're getting paler and paler, George!"
"I feel fi..." George says, looking at you.
You frown. "You feel what?"
"Fine," he says, but quietly.
"You didn't say that before," you argue.
He groans and lies down. "Yes I di..."
"Yes you what?!" you cry.
"Did," he repeats.
You slap your palm to his forehead. "George!" you shriek. "You're freezing!"
George doesn't say anything, but only takes large breaths.
"Can you breathe??" you ask hysterically.
"Of course I ca..."
"GEORGE!" you scream, and begin shaking him. He barely reacts.
"St..." is all he can mutter, eyes now closed.
"George!?? Are you there?!" you demand.
He doesn't respond.
You grab the nearby phone and dial 911, feeling about ready to pass out yourself.
"911, what is your emergency?"


Being a new mother and fiancée is about the hardest thing you've ever had to do. You’re pretty young to start with, and all of this is so new to you. You didn’t even meet Ringo a year ago, and here you are, with his ring on your finger and his child in your arms. But you can't make any wedding choices with your baby constantly screaming and wanting to be fed. And you can't ignore him for a few minutes like other mothers. Being a preemie, when Little Ritchie, as dubbed by you and Ringo, needs food, he needs it NOW.
Ringo has agreed to staying home for the first few weeks with you, but with all headaches from the stress of a wedding to plan, infant screaming, and constant phone ringing full of wedding/baby congratulations and the Beatles wondering when Ringo is coming back to the studio, you can't help but long to tear your hair out, even despite Ringo’s willingness to stay with you and the baby.
On your knee sits a colicky Ritchie, screaming, while you sit at the kitchen table and attempt to pick out a flower arrangement. Ringo is cleaning up the mess you made from attempting to feed the baby.
"I can't do this, Ring," you bark one day.
Ringo looks up at you, looking half-dead with huge purple bags under his under-slept eyes. He looks like he hasn’t eaten in a year, and his dazed and confused attitude tell you he’s willing to pass out at any time for only a few moments of sleep.
"I know," is all he says.
"No, I mean I CAN'T do this. This kid is driving me crazy. I mean, he screams constantly for food, yet he never eats! And if this keeps up, all we're having for a wedding is a parking lot party and a box of Chips Ahoy," you continue.
Ringo nods. "I know," he replies.
"And I'm really getting sick of the only thing you having to say is 'I know!'" you shout, and Ritchie screams louder. You’re almost positive you’re losing your hearing.
Ringo sighs and half-heartedly takes the shrieking child from you. "I know," he says.
You groan and begin yanking at your hair. Not literally, of course.
But you could.
"Do you have any ideas, Ringo, or are you just going to say 'I know' like a scratched record?"
Ringo is being surprisingly mellow for your dramatic behavior, and you’re not sure if that’s because he’s naturally not a drama queen or because he’s much too tired to argue. "Yes, I do, actually," he answers, juggling Ritchie in one hand and dialing a phone in the other.
You frown. "And what would that be...?"
He grins and puts the phone up to his ear. "We're hiring some help."
You groan. “Ringo, I don’t want some stranger staying in our home and watching our child. I don’t trust that they won’t sell secrets to the press. And if I can’t trust them not to do that, then how could I trust her to watch my kid?
He smiles. "First off, love, you do know these nannies. And you can definitely trust them not to sell secrets. "
“Nannies?” you repeat his words, not believing your ears.
“Three, to be exact,” he says, still grinning.
You shake your head. "You are not. WE are not."
He nods. "We are. Baby, you're gonna have Beatle nannies!"
You groan and sigh, but Ringo and Ritchie disappear into the next room to make the phone call, Ringo grinning but Ritchie still screaming his tiny little bald head off.
And you rub your temples, feeling another headache coming on.

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