Please don’t forget that this never ever ever happened—this is merely a pleasantly odd export of my tiny little mind. Thanks! ;)

 

It was 4:24 a.m. and George Harrison still couldn’t get back to sleep. Anyone who had been observing his behavior over the past several hours would not, perhaps, have thought it possible, but sleep is all too hard to win with the pointy-toothed imp called Guilt contentedly chewing a hole in his gut. Yes, Gwendy had been something of a nutter. No one was debating that at this stage. But—she’d been a harmless nutter. Had what he said to her, in the way he said it to her, been really necessary? She had, after all, just fallen on her sword to save his and his mates’ reputation. Maybe he’d been a bit too harsh on her.

 

*             *             *

 

So that was it. Gwendolyn’s world had just ended. Beatle George Harrison—her favorite man in the whole wide world ever for eternity—Didn’t Like Her. She tilted her head skyward briefly, half expecting to see the moon turn to blood and the Four Horsemen tearing across the heavens. But all she could distinguish were tear-dimmed stars and an inexorable craving for nicotine. Criminy, but she needed a smoke.

Briefly she patted around the pockets of her nightgown and discovered a matchbook, along with the remains of a pack of cigarettes she kept close to her for just such an emergency. She couldn’t go back to her bedroom—her parents were sentinels far too vigilant for her to return the way she’d left. Besides, smoking was one of those habits she’d only just managed to keep her elders from discovering, and the cost of allowing such a revelation on the heels of her latest escapade would surely be staggering. It was best at this point, she reasoned, to reduce her risk of discovery by stopping at the Cozy Nook to fill her fix before she tried to break back into her quarters.

Sad and tired and hollow and bleary, Gwendy trundled slowly over to the nearest bench and fished her tobacco paraphernalia from her pockets. With a practiced effortlessness she flicked the matchbook open with her thumbnail—Empty. Damn. She swore quietly to herself in the almost impenetrable dark. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another…

“Who is it?” The lilt and cadence of the voice not ten feet away from her tugged Gwendy’s attention outward, and she peered at its source to see a bundle of shadows and a faint orange flicker resolve itself into John Lennon. “No autographs, not at this hour—” He paused a moment, grinned, and with a nearly catlike grace parked himself comfortably close to his quarry. “And a good morning to you! What was that?”

“I said ‘Hah!’”

“Well, it’s still pretty good, no matter what you say. By the way, fine job you did back there with your diversion. Award-winner, that was. I just wanted to say—Ooh, you naughty thing, you.” Playfully he waggled the finger on his nonsmoking hand at her. “And what would your mum ‘n’ dad think if they caught you smoking?”

“I’m not smoking, not right now.” She gestured toward the empty matchbook. “No matches. I don’t suppose you’ve got a light on you, do you?”

“Nope, sorry, I don’t,” John replied, blithely ignoring both his still-lit cigarette and the lighter in his pocket. “But I’m sure—” He stopped abruptly to glare at a point over Gwendolyn’s shoulder. “But I’m sure George here has one. Halloo, Harri!” John positively steamed with irritation.

“I—erm, yeah.” George stared intently at his feet for a moment, then sat down a little awkwardly on the other side of the bench. “I wanted to say—I mean, I am sorry I snapped at you back there. I should have been a little more considerate…um…considering.” He glanced back up at her. “If you want to read your poetry at me now, I wouldn’t mind at all.”

“Hm?” Gwendolyn hadn’t been listening. For the first time that night, she could picture an evening without his company. Suddenly she had a whole new set of plans—and they didn’t involve any poetry readings. “That’s nice. Why don’t you go back to your room and get some sleep?”

Now it was George’s turn to say “Hm?” That definitely hadn’t been the reaction he’d been bracing himself for.

“Well, I mean, it was fun while it lasted—” She gestured dismissively with an unlit cigarette. “But you know how it is, here today gone tomorrow, we’re both more mature, I’ll look back on it in a few years and laugh, and meanwhile you should really go back to your room.” She stood up. “Don’t lose any more sleep over the whole thing, I’m over it. So you were saying, John?” She picked up her pack of cigarettes and empty matchbook as she stepped away. “Do you think you have some matches in your room, maybe?”

“I might just.” John fixed his slyest grin on her. “Shall we go and look for some?”

With that the pair strode off into the night. Just before they turned the corner, however, Gwendy glanced over her shoulder and called out, “Good night, George!”

‘You what?” He had the deeply confused air of a defendant who, having heard himself sentenced to death, discovers before the final gavel that he was simply in the wrong courtroom. “I thought you—”

“Good night, George!” A moment later he heard a door shut; John’s, George presumed.

Oh well. George glanced at the sky as it slowly began to glow a pre-dawn navy blue. It was hardly the time to analyze her reasoning; at this hour women could just be crazy that way sometimes, and hang the sense of it as long as he was off the hook. At least now he supposed he could finally go and get some sleep.

 

***Authoress’s note: If you’d like to use this story for anything or take it someplace, please ask me first. It’s just one little email, not too much trouble, and the odds are in your favor for a yes if you ask me nicely. I just want people to recognize the story as mine, okay? ;-)