Sunday the 30th of September 1958

I laughed when we were kicked out of the Diner, I purely couldn't help it. It would be utterly impossible to get a free meal like that in my day and age. Again, I laughed at the fact that it was raining, cold and miserable when Paul pushed open the door for me, the icy wind caressing my cheeks, while I noticed in his other hand he held what I guessed was a dozen damp napkins clumped in his hand in case my nose started bleeding again –– and I, of course, laughed about the fact my nose still hurt.

John Lennon had one hell of a punch.

Paul wasn't really all that happy about it, I couldn't decide whether it was me taking the punch for him or the fact I had interfered between the two of them. I could see it on the expression his rounded cute face carried. He'd lectured or well, scolded me like I was a child for the whole five minutes we sat on the white and black checkered tiles before we were kicked out. It was difficult to take him seriously, he was just so young and pretty, it was a major distraction. Yet again, it did make me feel insanely guilty and regretful for my spur of the moment actions.

"Daisy in the future please don't do that again yer gave me a heart––," Paul started but he was cut off by John.

"Shut up Macca ye daft cow, nobody cares. We didn't have to pay." John remarked, with a sly grin at Paul as he bumped his shoulder with Pauls. I noticed that it didn't help and I took matters into my own hands.

"See it's fine Paul!" I grinned from the left side of Paul, removing the napkin and showing him my nose that was unknowingly smudged in my own dried blood. Paul grimaced at the sight of it and it made me grimace too.

I turned to George who was beside me, knowing that he'd tell me the truth, "Is it that bad?" It made him chuckle and his glimmering brown eyes met mine, his voice enriched with a slight sarcasm, "No, Daisy. I just wouldn't remove the napkin."

"Thanks, George. You could have just told me it was bad. I'm not some prissy little princess who can't handle being punched in the face. I'm Australian for gods sake!" Before George could say anything John loudly snorted through his nose at my words and I craned my neck over Paul's side to look at him.

"Hey! You weren't the one that got in hit in the face by you, John Lennon!"

It surprised me that he turned to me, not ignoring me as an unreadable look washing over his face and in the dark it was impossible to read his eyes, "Look Hawaii, its ye own bloody fault ye stepped in. And I'm not going to say sorry just because ye a girl."

"I know that and it was my fault," I spoke through gritted teeth, my jaw clenched. "But I honestly thought you were going to fight and Paul had done nothing wrong. I...I wanted to stop it."

John snorted, kicking stones along the path as we all walked further away from the diner and to the bus stop, "Little goody two-shoes — course ye stick up for ye pretty, baby faced lil' lover boy, aye?"

"Hey, that's mean! I'm still growing, y'know?!" Paul protested in a defensive manner, but I ignored his words due to the fact that George roared with laughter but closed his mouth when Paul playfully jumped him, the two of them almost toppling onto the sidewalk.

"It was the right thing to do and for your information, he isn't my lover boy," I spoke, curling my fingers into fists the pocket of my raincoat. Liverpool was always so rainy and cold and wet. It made me miss home way too much. I missed the sun. Everything felt wrong here. I missed my grandma and my dad and my friends Max and Ellie.

John sort of smirked in a way he looked as if he knew something I didn't. It was rather unsettling in my gut and I hated it. "We'll see Hawaii. Just ya wait."

I was silent for the rest of the walk to the bus stop, only every now and then finding the ability to listen in to their banter. I had let myself drift behind them and it was then that I noticed how young and very teenager-like and teddy-boysish they were. They weren't the Beatles yet and they would shed and embrace many band names before they even settled on that name. They wouldn't even meet Ringo for another two years or so. These were the days of their youth and I should be grateful to even witness a day of it, even if this was some miraculous journey to the past, or a dream or whatever hell it was.

Once we all clambered onto the red double-decker bus, John had taken the spot next to Paul as I had expected. It didn't even surprise me the slightest. A grin stretched over my face when George patted the seat beside him. George yawned and lazily put a hand over his mouth in an attempt of politeness, "Mind if I have a kip?" I frowned for a moment, unable to register what he was saying, Paul seemed to filter his words without that much British slang so I could somewhat understand him but it made sense when George leant himself against the window and fluttered his eyes closed.

For a moment I looked out the window of the bus and I slowly let my eyes droop and somehow my head rested against George's comfortable despite his leather-jacketed shoulder and fell asleep. The bus ride back to Liverpool flew by quicker than I had expected.

George was riddled with sudden laughter and it awoke in an instant. "Thanks for gettin' drool all over me jacket."

I forced myself upright, blinking. "I'm so sorry." I quickly wiped it away with the sleeve of my rainjacket and George grinned showing off his infamous canines.

"It's alright, lar." Then George's eyes darted cool and calm over my shoulder and out the window into the blackness, I could see Paul walking insanely fast, growing smaller and smaller, "Ye might want to go after Paul. He's having a lil' bit of a sulk."

I jumped out of the seat so quickly and bid a fast goodbye to George not even noticing that John was missing and rushed off the bus, running to catch up with Paul slightly breathless as I began to sync my steps with his. "Is everything alright?" I asked simply, darting my eyes from the pavement to attempting to meet Paul's in the darkness and as soon as they met he turned away gruffly.

"That's utter rubbish and yer know it," He spoke in a firm tone that annoyed me. I understood the dynamics of now and what was expected of women.

That things were different from where I was, but that didn't mean I wasn't taken aback by his words. "Look, I honestly don't understand what your problem is. I've done nothing wrong."

"You might as well snogged the lad!" Paul spoke his voice laced with something I couldn't place.

"I don't understand what you are saying, Paul," I admitted gently, trying to hide the aggravation in my words. The last thing I wanted was to cause too much of a racket. People were inside and asleep. Didn't people go to bed really early these days?

"You were all over George!" He exclaimed, his voice harsh and bitter.

"I was not!" I sighed internally. All I did was fall asleep. It's not my fault I put my head on his shoulder.

"Yes, yer were!"

"No, I wasn't!"

"Don't lie to me, Dasiy!"

"Jesus Christ Paul!" I screeched almost too loud like some overreactive maniac. "You are not my boyfriend. And you do not have some ridiculous claim on me. Look, I am thankful for everything little thing you do for me, providing me with lovely meals and a nice warm bed and a roof over my head, but Paul this. . . this crosses the line of my own personal independence. I'm quite different, no, extremely different, from all those prissy little dyed blond wannabe Briget Baguette girls you drool over––,"

Paul cut me off his voice offended but softening to a mere whisper and somehow bewildered by the use of my voice and my inability to accept what might be 50s social standards, "It's Bardot. Brigitte Bardot."

"I couldn't care less if her name was Marilyn Monroe! Do you understand what I'm saying? Paul, George is a lovely and sweet lad and he has a wonderful sense of humour and an excellent headrest on bus rides but he isn't entirely my cup of tea. I'm more of a bassist than a guitar type of girl."

"Oh. Am I a bassist type of guy?" Paul asked with that stupid charming smile and I suddenly wanted to hit him on the back of the head or for a mere moment possibly kiss him, but I decided against both those options.

"Maybe. Maybe not. But I'd personally stick with the guitar, it's good for parties. Girls like french tunes and. . . yeah." I couldn't help it. I was smiling and Paul unexpectedly winked, linking my arm with his, forgetting our first argument like a drop of the hat as we continued in the cold night towards his home, 20 Forthlin Road, Liverpool.

"Do yer have any experiences with climbing drainpipes?" Paul asked suddenly out of the blue, as we crossed his tiny front lawn. "No. . . does climbing tress count?" I asked, my voice slightly confused at his question.

"Yes," Paul agreed, unlocking the latch on the gate to his backyard, it's hinges letting out a soft screech.

Paul led me to the back of his house where a drainpipe was mounted against the bricks. I took a step closer to examine it, hoping it was sturdy enough to carry me and it wouldn't be like some comedy movie where I fell right off. It would seem safe if Paul climbed it, I mean how often would he climb it in his teenage years?

"Ladies first," He mused from behind me. I internally died at the thought of having to climb the drainpipe through the bathroom window in a skirt.

"If you look up my skirt, I'll cripple you, James Paul McCartney, to the god damn ground."

"Ya wouldn't dare lay a finger on my 'pretty face'!" I flinched at my own words as Paul mimicked what he thought was my voice and I didn't think my accent sounded anything like that.

"Okay then Mr Prettyface, you go up first."

Paul chuckled, heaving himself onto it and turned to look at me, "As you wish your majesty with blood still on her nose."

I hastily tried to wipe it away, shocked by the fact no one had told me. I stopped after realising it was dark and there was no point anyways.

"I hope you don't fall Princess." I grinned mischievously at my words and laughed when he didn't object or maybe it was the fact he was so focus on not actually falling. Paul was higher up now as he scaled it at ease and it clear that he had does this once or twice and disappeared completely for a few splintering moments. His head popped out of the window, he looked like some sort of ghost in the night peering down at me.

"Come on!" He urged his voice a soft hiss. I rolled my eyes at him and began to climb the drainpipe, it was a lot trickier than I would have thought even in a skirt as in spots I had to use the upper body strength I didn't have. Paul was waiting a lot more patiently. I wedged my arms over the window sill, kicking my feet praying that it would help get me out of this awkward situation quicker.

"Can you please help me?" I pleaded in my most vulnerable tone, "I've lost my footing." Paul looked like he was trying to laugh as his warm calloused hands tightened around my wrists and pulled me through, only to slam myself onto him and the two of us crashing onto the bathroom floor.

"Sorry," I muttered apologetically, looking into his hazel eyes helplessly. I hated that our faces were so close and my body was mashed against his.

Paul grinned charmingly and then winked, "S'alright, love."

Abruptly, I moved to stand, offering a hand to Paul that he accepted, then carefully in the dim light, move out of the bathroom and into the hallway.

"G'night Paul," I said with a soft smile, reaching up on my tippy toes to kiss his cheek and then move away, without a beat crossing the hallway to my tiny shoebox-sized room. I paused at the doorway of my room once I softly opened the door noticing that he was still there, by the bathroom, watching me with his stupid grin, "Go to bed, you have school in the morning."

"Goodnight Dasiy," He replied musically, in a sing-song sort of voice that was a little too cheery and disappeared to his room. I closed my own bedroom door behind me, leaning against it with a palm against my forehead and fluttered my eyes closed with a deep sigh, Paul McCartney was really going to be the death of me, whether I liked it or not.

And I was strangely okay with it.

────── ✮ ──────

author's note:
i seriously promise this story will get a hundred times better as it continues. i know i'm taking things slow, but i just can't dive into all of it right away. it needs to be somewhat realistic and built up, especially jude's relationship with paul — but anyways i'm starting to ramble. i hope you liked it even if it was sort of fluffy sort of filler! i hope you're all well x

ps. look how cute they are!