⠀×⠀george harrison x southern!reader.
overview. southern-american reader runs in to the beatles at a diner in nashville, tennessee and gets along w george harrison quite well.
a|n. new beatles fan. please excuse any inaccuracies !
you’re the last to enter the diner, at the tail end of the line with your four friends in front. one might think, after the previous six nights of eating here, you would finally know to brace for the gust of cold air from the air conditioner above the door. despite wearing a coat, the cold air somehow still manages to slither through the material and nip at the skin of your arms underneath.
a pair of windchimes on either side of the heavy double doors announces the arrival of your group, and rattles again and again with the press of each of our palms on the door’s glass; the door is plastered with people’s fingerprints, some of the prints are newer, others older.
at the sight of us, one of the waitresses, a ginger girl with huge brown eyes, starts on two carafes of coffee. we’ve created quite the reputation for ourselves over the past week as full-fledged coffee fiends. though tonight, i make my way to the front counter as the others claim a booth the back. the same one we’ve sat in all week. it’s so chilly, i can feel the coldness of the tile through my shoes. the ginger waitress is preoccupied with preparing the coffee, baby-blue fingernails tapping on the side of the silver coffeemaker.
“oh, my god! i’m so sorry! i didn’t know you were there, sweetheart,” the waitress smiles, and grabs a damp towel off of the counter to wipe her hands.
“oh no, no worries,” i return the smile, “i wanted to do tea tonight, instead of the coffee. if it isn’t too much trouble.”
my voice is weaker than usual; i screamed all of the strength out of it at a music festival earlier tonight. my friends and i had heard of a huge festival here in nashville, tennessee with the beatles as headliners. so, without a second thought, we threw our dollars together to cover two full tanks of gas and the nearly nine-hour road-trip from south carolina to tenneessee.
“no trouble at all. actually, i can get that cup of tea for you in a few seconds if you’re alright with waitin’,” she offers, sifting through a box of teabags.
“that’s perfectly fine,” i answer, deciding to take a seat on one of the burnt-orange barstools.
“so, what’d the five of you get into tonight,” she asks, “the festival i assume.”
“mhm, that’s the whole reason we’re in nashville. well, for the beatles to be specific. oh! and the supremes! but, i’ve seen the supremes too many times to count. it’s the beatles i’ve never seen.”
“you’re lyin’. you’ve never ever seen the beatles in concert,” she asks in genuine surprise, while pouring the fourth and final cup of coffee and wiping the excess off of the side of the mug.
“nope. never,” i confirm, “the west is where most of their u.s concerts are, and carolina and california ain’t exactly an hour or two apart.”
the waitress nods in understanding, stacking the 4 coffee mugs and single cup of tea on a tray. nearly twenty coffee creamers are stacked on the tray, along with sugar and lemon for my tea. “i can take it over, save you the walk,” i say, grabbing the sides of the tray.
“you’re an absolute angel, you sure,” she hesitates.
i glance at the teal nametag on her uniform. angela it reads, “of course, angela. it’s no problem.”
my use of her name brings a smile to her face.
i make my to the back of the diner and ‘our’ booth.
my friends are about ten minutes in to a spirited conversation about the beatles’ set, and susan’s longtime ringo obsession.
“i swear, if ringo starr so much as asked to go out for coffee together, i’d leave harold in a heartbeat,” susan insists, as she distributes the mugs once i set the tray down.
“your fiance, harold?” i question, smiling at the ridiculous of it all.
“that’s the one,” susan confirms, and empties four packets of powdered creamer in a mug.
“that’s a shame. susan, you’re a depraved woman,” rodney, the only guy in our group, declares with that trademark hyena laugh.
“oh fuck off. if a beatle asked your hand in marriage you would decline? the devil is a liar,” she scoffs.
“woah, ok. coffee perhaps, but marriage?”
“only a birdbrain thinks to reject john lennon.”
the other two in the friend-group chime in with obviously opposing opinions.
“y/n, seriously if paul mcc—” susan starts, until rodney interrupts, “no no, george. it’s george y/n likes.”
“ok, even better! if george fucking harrison points to you in the crowd and goes ‘hey! you there, i want to see you after the show’ you’re declining!?”
i’m laughing so hard at her horrible attempt at an english accent, i can’t answer.
so, rodney answers instead, “why would he ask for her when i’m right here?” he teases.
i haven’t checked a clock in ages. i think we’ve been in the diner for the past two hours or so. in that time, we’ve spoken to damn near all of the staff. it’s our last night in nashville, and the news spread like wildfire through the workers. in a weird way, it’s like the last night of summer-camp.
right now i’m resting on the table, using an outstretched arm as a cushion for my head. it’s emptier, the night rush is over for the most part. last time i took a look around, a group of seven or so entered through the side door. the faces of the four in the rear weren’t as visible as the three in front. the front three were all in suits, while the rear four weren’t.
the group took up a table near the counter, and angela started on two pots of plain tea.
i tuned out of my table’s conversation ages ago, another stupid debate on one stupid topic or another.
“oh shit, we forgot to order the pie!” susan interrupts.
“i got it,” i sit up, glad to take a break from the chaos, “keylime or pecan,” i ask with a stretch as i stand up and adjust my skirt.
“keyli- okay, then. pecan,”
“coconut cream..,” rodney tries. the suggestion is met with immediate rejections.
i chuckle at that last one, “pecan it is, then.”
i maneuver through the tables toward the counter, their noise starts to fade the farther i get.
when i reach the counter, angela is working on refilling the tea for the table of seven.
i slide into the same barstool as before, and pick at my nail polish to pass the time.
“what can i get you guys?” angela asks, once those refills are squared away.
“pecan pie if you have it, please,” i say sweetly.
“‘course, gimme one second,” angela nods.
“take your time,” i settle in, focusing on a familiar song sounding through the diner’s ceiling speakers. i’m so occupied, i almost don’t catch the voice of the person right next to me, “pecan pie, is it?” it asks.
the man’s accent is an entire world of ‘different’ compared to the southern ones that flow through the place.
“mhm, it’s really good,” i answer absentmindedly.
a second later, i turn my attention to the stranger, fully prepared to engage in a conversation on pecan pie of all things.
but, good lord i didn’t expect the stranger’s face to be the same one i spent the earlier part of my night staring up at from the pit beneath the stage.
my head is turned in george’s direction, and my eyes turn slowly to the table of seven. clear as day are the other three beatles lounging at the table with the three men in suits; some sort of staff i suppose. their manager isn’t there, i think i would recognize epstein from the pictures in the magazines.
for a few seconds the entire table (and angela, with a knowing grin) glance from george to me, me to george, george to me.
i turn back to george to find he’s still staring at me. he’s leaning on the counter to the right the stool i’m seated on and. john, paul and ringo are failing horribly to hide their teasing smiles, like this interaction is peak humor to them.
“yeah, uh. the pie’s really good,” i repeat and manage to say so clearly and rather casually, even though i said the same thing moments ago.
“i’m sure it is,” george answers, eating up the puzzled expression on my face.
after plenty of rapid blinks and a pinch to the arm i manage to come to my senses, and find that george is rather easy to talk to.
“south carolina. i live on the coast sort of, the town’s called charleston,” i answer george’s question of where i’m from.
“ah, a beach town, is it?” he nods along, now seated in the stool to my right rather than standing next to it. i could swear it’s scooted a tad bit closer than before.
“pretty much; we call it the low country,” i say.
“and you listen to us all the way out there?,” paul chimes in from the table, earning a pointed stare from george.
“uh, yeah,” i chuckle, “south carolina isn’t another planet, we listen to the beatles like everyone else.”
george slides back into the conversation before paul can speak again, “what’s your name, then.”
“that’s a question to ask a lady at the start of the conversation, not ten minutes in, george,” john teases, prompting grins from ringo and paul.
i manage to suppress my surprised laugh, though the lifted corners of my mouth give away my amusement, “it’s y/n,” i say.
“got a favorite of us, y/n?” paul chimes in again, to which george mumbles an almost inaudible, “will you please, paul.”
i glance over to george, the silent indicator that he’s my #1 beatle. at least that seems to satisfy george. a lot.
“what about a second favorite. can’t pick only one, right?” paul follows up. i can tell paul loves to taunt, quite charmingly might i confess.
“i’d say ringo, i think,” i answer, though the fact that i didn’t say ‘paul’ doesn’t appear to dishearten paul in the slightest; it’s the air of a man that’s 100% sure he’s on every girl’s mind every now and again.
“y/n, where the hell have you been,” susan’s voice interrupts paul’s interrogation, like the scratch of a record.
“we send you over for pie and you’re out here fraternizing with—” she starts, though a single glance at their table silences susan in a second flat.
when she finally manages to tear her eyes away from ringo, she peers over with an incredulous expression in her eyes.
“su, i’m sorry, we started talking and one thing led to another,” i say, starting to slide off of the stool.
“oh no no, don’t worry about it,” susan’s tone softens; the pecan pie is the least of our worries.
“y/n, you didn’t say you were with friends,” ringo speaks up, and it’s the clearest i’ve heard ringo’s voice in the midst of all the overlapping conversations.
“much less gorgeous ones,” ringo adds, eyes trained on susan.
i almost laugh at susan’s awestruck expression, and the quickness in which susan settles into the seat ringo pulls out next to him.
“there’s three more of us, actually,” i point out, “i’ll go get ‘em.”
“oh, i’ll go too,” george pipes up. then, at a volume only i hear, “we’ll send the rest of your friends over here, then you and i can have your table to ourselves, yeah?”
i nod, stomach twisted into the tightest knot known to man, “sounds good,” i agree.
after george and i manage to shoo the other three, who stare at us (or george, rather) like they’re in the presence of an extraterrestrial, there’s only us in the back area of the diner. as the three scramble to the front to catch up with susan, rodney turns around to shoot me a shiteating grin.
i roll my eyes, sliding into the booth only for george to slide in beside me instead of across.
“so, all five of you are friends?” he asks, hands on the table. he’s got a gorgeous ring on the middle finger of his right hand.
“yeah, all five of us. since middle school, actually,” i tell him, my own hands hidden under the table to chip away at what’s left of my nail polish.
“even that one there?”, george inquires, turning to point at rodney, who’s helped himself to a seat next to john. the two seem to already be getting along.
“mhm. not your boyfriend?”
“oh absolutely not, we all group rodney into the annoying older brother category.”
that seems to please george.
“no boyfriend at all as of now?”
“nope,” i say, with a faint pop of the ‘p’. when i rub my lips together, i can feel a few small specks of glitter in my lipgloss.
“means there’s room for me, then,” george says.
to that i finally let out the laugh i’d tried to suppress earlier.
“what? what is it,” he grins, leaning in a little.
i decide to redirect the convo a little, buy myself time to recover, “your accent’s a lot heavier than i imagined,” i point out.
“mine,” george gasps in faux surprise, “listen to your own, will you,” he teases, intense eyes drinking in the whole of my face, seeming to spend an extra second or so on my lips.
“mhm, it’s a hell of a lot sweeter sounding, especially comin’ from you, i’ll give you that much.”
“oh yeah,” he insists, “you skipped up to the counter and went ‘can we get some pecan pie pretty please’,” he says, with a sorry attempt at mocking my southern accent.
“oh absolutely not, i don’t sound like that!” i laugh.
“really? this sounds pretty case in point to me,” he tilts his head.
“whatever you say,” i sigh melodramatically.
“i say, i’d love to hear it over the phone sometime. all the time actually.”
i nibble at the inside of my lip, eyes studying george’s face.
“i think i can make that happen,” i hum.
“good good,” he mirrors my smile. then, after a second or two of simply staring at each other, “i mean, i might need a translator, but that’s no trouble.”
“oh, you’re such an asshole,” i laugh again, mouth dropping open.
george and i pass at least another two hours or so in our booth in the back of the diner; the time’s coming close to 2:00am, the time the diner closes. now, my friends and the band are the only customers left, though it sounds as if there’s a full-house. from our peaceful corner, i can hear paul and rodney finishing off their third spirited game of pool with almost all of the staff gathered around. meanwhile susan and ringo stand a little too close for casual near one of the jukeboxes. how the hell susan is going to explain this to harold, her fiance, is absolutely beyond me.
george and i almost sitting in each other in the booth. i’m on the inside, closest to the wall and window where i’m leaning my back against the glass, with legs crisscrossed on the seat.
when angela apologetically approaches the table to tell us it’s time for the diner to close, george gently taps a hand on my leg, a silent (though reluctant) suggestion that we get up.
once he’s up, he holds a hand out to help me up, and doesn’t let go as we follow our friends out the door. again, that pesky gust of cold air above the door sends a shiver down my spine.
the parking lot’s dark and awfully humid as a result of the rainfall earlier while we were all still inside. the two groups start to split, the band turning toward their bus while we start toward rodney’s van.
everyone’s exchanging numbers and words rapidly, like there’s so much that they didn’t get to say in the diner. i even catch susan and ringo share a hug, and john and rodney a firm friendly handshake. as if to say ‘i can do one better’ george pulls my coat tighter around my shoulders and presses a soft kiss to the side of my lips; a few flecks of glitter transfer from my lips to george’s; he’s careful, like he doesn’t want to go too quick. nonetheless, the kiss is comfortable, like kissing a longtime lover.
on a napkin i snagged from inside, i wrote my number in the same bright red marker the workers use to write the specials of the day, and press it into george’s hand.
“george, c’mon!” john shouts from across the parking lot, and disappears into the bus.
george slips the napkin into his pocket, “don’t be a stranger, y/n. i mean it.”
that same stupid smile is on both of our faces.
“phone works two ways though,” i add.
george laughs and shakes his head as he walks backward to the bus, “i’ll talk to you later, love,” he calls out, taking one last look back before climbing up and into the bus.
i shake my head in utter disbelief; this’ll be one insane debrief in our hotel room.
“what the fuck just happened to us,” susan giggles, as the five of us rush over to the van all rambling at once, the consequence of a lot of leftover adrenaline.
as the last of the van’s doors closes, we hear, “what’s this, georgie’s got glitter on his lips, hm?” the taunting voice of paul from across the parking lot, no doubt about it.
𝓮. ; EEQRV’26. please, feel free to leave questions, comments, or feedback here or in the eeqrv mailbox.
izzy806
kaledo-art
theartofmadeline
jacobvanloon