he didn't plan or intend for this and all that mumbo jumbo, it just happened. like, seriously, the whole thing came out of nowhere and just crash banged into the middle of his usually normal, honestly kind of boring life.
all he had wanted to do this morning was do the normal gig at the cavern and move on with his night.
everything had gone as normal; he'd woken up, found that the newspaper had yet again written a piece about the band, had his breakfast, lounged about for the rest of the day until it was time to head down.
the gig went as planned, and he didn't get mauled by anybody so all in all it was a pretty good day.
it wasn't until after the gig when him and the boys were packing away their stuff that his world was tipped upside down.
as he was shutting his guitar case, he felt a presence in the doorway and instinctively turned his head.
and there you stood.
the light from the hallway behind you, once harsh and yellow, now seemed to form a halo behind you, making it seem like you were some kind of angel, sent purely for him.
and your face. oh my gosh, your face. in all his years of being, he can't imagine a face more beautiful that yours. the way your eyes sparkle, batting your eyelashes, with your hair framing your face so perfectly. he's about ready to propose marriage and carry you away to the chapel so he can make you his immediately.
his mind is completely boggled, and he's half convinced he might fall to his knees form how his legs have turned to jelly. he doesn't even care that you're a complete stranger and possibly some crazed superfan who managed to sneak into the back without anybody noticing.
all he can think about is your eyes and that hair and those lips, with that perfectly kissable cupids bow. he reevaluates any crushes he had in the past to recall if he had ever felt this way about someone before, and comes up short. his chest aches with this newfound, sudden affection he feels.
and then, all of his prayers are answered. you lips, perfect as they already are, spread into a full smile and he feels like he's just been shot by cupids arrow. everything feels like it's in slow motion. possibly the most beautiful girl on the planet is standing there, and she's smiling at him, and he feels like the most special man on the planet.
he can feel his pupils expand, his heart open, and suddenly birds are chirping and all atrocities in the world have ended.
and then paul pushes past him, and all of his joy dissolves.
he realises that he, stupidly, misunderstood the situation and really you were not looking at him, but rather paul, who was standing directly behind him. he deflates, and he wouldn't be surprised if he turned grey and a raincloud appeared above his head as he watches paul embrace you.
stupid paul.
the 'cute' beatle.
it makes him feel a little sick, then stupid.
"jesus. cheer up, buttercup." john's voice rings in his ear, forcing him out of his pity party. "can't be looking all solemn in front of a pretty girl."
meeting his eye, john realises that george isn't just in a grump, but that his heart was just torn out of his chest and stomped on a billion, jillion times in the span of about a minute. "ah," a smirk fills his face. "got your hopes up, eh?"
george wants to slap him, but he refrains.
he stays quiet as paul introduces you to the rest of the guys, and you smile like and angel and introduce yourself to each of them with a little wave and it makes his heart race in his chest like he's a schoolboy.
when you finally come to him, finally meet his eyes, he feels like if he opens his mouth he might explode or accidentally profess his love to you, or anything that disastrous. "hi," your voice is smooth and sweet like honey, and he wishes he could bottle the sound and listen to it forever.
he stands there for a few seconds, unable to speak, as you stare up at him with those expectant eyes. once he regains his ability to function like a regular human, he manages to peep out a little. "alright?"
you smile up at him, introducing yourself like you had with john and ringo, but all he can focus on is your eyes solely focused on him, the moment of your lips and the light flush of your cheeks. he wants to believe that it's because of him, and the guilt of it gnaws inside of him.
the pleasantries continue and george has to fight between his desire to memorise you and his fear of getting caught, his eyes flicking between you and a random spot on the wall. john smirks at it, and paul has no idea, smug with his arm thrown around your shoulders.
and its over as soon as it started. paul's guiding you out of the club, whilst george stands pathetically in the doorway, watching as you go, jealous of the arm around your shoulder like an immature child.
he has no right to feel jealous, you're not his.
he tries to convince himself that you must be annoying or rude or inconsiderate, but the concept of you being anything but perfect doesn't register.
so he stands there and watches as you're carted away from him, anticipating and dreading the next time he sees you. he can't imagine never seeing that face again, but he also fears what kind of stupid rubbish would come out of his mouth if he was made to speak to you. he assumes it would be just gibberish, but there's also a strong chance he'd just fall to his knees and beg you to be with him.
but then you turn back to meet his sad eyes, and he can just make out the small, shy smile that you're sending to him, and he feels like he's been shot by a second arrow. he breathes in a sharp breath, but before he can send you a smile back, you've disappeared.
꒰ summary ꒱ you’re a reporter’s assistant on your very first real assignment, delivering things to the band during a long press day. you didn’t expect him to smile at you. or to ask your name. or to remember it the next day.
꒰ note ꒱ i love him so much siighh
You were just there to deliver the sandwiches.
That was it. Your whole job. Get the press packets in before noon. Make sure the photographers didn’t spill tea on the rental equipment. And, crucially, bring sandwiches to The Beatles.
Not even for The Beatles, really. For the reporter you worked under. He was inside the suite already, talking at them about trends and music and something about their accents being “marketable.” Your job was to knock on the door, slide the paper bag in, and leave.
That was it.
You did not expect the door to open early.
Or for a mop of floppy dark hair to appear under a pair of soft blue eyes.
Or for him to blink at you like you were the one who wasn’t supposed to be there.
“Alright?” he asked, and leaned against the doorframe like this happened all the time. “You bringin’ snacks or somethin’? I smell food.”
You blinked.
Then stared down at the brown paper bag in your hand. “Er-yeah. Sandwiches. Um, one chicken, one egg, and I think one’s ham and tomato, unless it got mixed up with the manager’s again, in which case…”
You trailed off.
Ringo Starr was looking at you.
Looking at you and smiling.
“Well,” he said, stepping back with a sweep of his arm, “far be it from me to stop a sandwich deliverer. You’re a hero, you are. Come in.”
You shook your head quickly. “Oh, no, I’m not-I’m not supposed to. I just give them to someone and go.”
“Scandalous,” he said, deadpan. “You tease us with lunch and vanish? Who trained you?”
That made you laugh, too loud, a bit startled, and it surprised you. You hadn’t expected him to be funny like that. Not right away. Not so off-the-cuff and dry.
“Sorry,” you muttered. “Just doing what I’m told.”
“You sound like George,” he said, and then tilted his head. “What’s your name?”
You blinked again.
“…Me?”
“No, the ghost behind you,” he said, then leaned in, hand to his mouth, mock-whispering: “Yes, you.”
You told him your name, hesitantly, sure it would disappear the moment the door shut.
But he nodded like he was saving it for later. “Nice.”
You weren’t sure what to say to that. So instead you said, “Um. Sandwiches. Here.”
“Right.” He took the bag and peeked inside. “You didn’t poison these, did you?”
“…No?”
“Good. Just checkin’.”
And then the moment passed. The door shut. The suite swallowed him up again.
And you stood in the hallway, heart doing strange, unfamiliar things in your chest.
━━
The next morning, you were back.
Only because the same reporter had asked you to be. He’d forgotten his notes and needed someone to drop them off. You weren’t even supposed to go up. Just leave them at the front desk. But the concierge had smiled and said, “Oh, they’re still upstairs. Suite 4B.”
Which meant you had to take the lift again. Past the same long hallway. Past the security.
You knocked softly, just once.
You weren’t sure why you expected the same thing to happen.
But you did not expect him to open the door again.
Or for his face to light up.
“There you are!”
You blinked. “…Sorry?”
“I thought I dreamt you. Y’know, bringin’ us food and all. Like a sandwich angel.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself. “I don’t think angels get paid minimum wage.”
He grinned. “Still. You’re back. Which means fate, or somethin’.”
“…Or my boss forgot his notes.”
He shrugged. “Still fate.”
He took the envelope from your hand, but didn’t go back inside right away. He looked at you again, this time with a bit of hesitation, like he was trying to work something out.
“D’you wanna come in for a minute?”
You blinked. “Um-don’t you have interviews?”
“Yeah,” he said, with the same casualness someone might say “Yeah, I’ve got laundry.”
“I don’t think I’m allowed to-”
“Oh, right. Rules.” He scratched his head. “Well. D’you want a tea, then? I’ve got one on. Paul won’t drink it, says I make it too strong.”
You weren’t sure what possessed you to say yes. Maybe it was the way he looked at you like you were already welcome. Maybe it was the fact that he’d remembered your face.
Or maybe it was because you hadn’t been offered tea in weeks without someone expecting you to file something afterward.
You nodded.
He stepped aside.
The tea wasn’t good.
You told him so.
He laughed so hard he nearly choked on it.
“Good. I didn’t want to share anyway.”
The others were still inside the suite, you could hear them. Paul’s voice going a mile a minute, John laughing too loud, George’s low murmur, someone from the press trying to talk over all of them. Ringo led you to the quieter side room, out of view, and plopped down on the couch with his mug.
You sat in the armchair.
“I didn’t think you’d remember me,” you said, before you could stop yourself.
He looked at you, brow raised. “Why wouldn’t I?”
You shrugged. “You meet thousands of people.”
“Doesn’t mean I forget the nice ones.”
You blinked at that. All you did was bring their lunch...
He sipped his tea, then added: “Besides. You brought lunch! That puts you miles above most of the journos in this place.”
You smiled. Looked down. “I was nervous.”
“Still are, a bit,” he said, not unkindly. “You do that twitchy thing with your hands.”
You looked down again. Your fingers were indeed twitching.
“I get like that too,” he said. “Especially when they all stare at you like you’re a statue or somethin’. Weird, innit?”
You nodded.
He watched you for a moment. “Well, I’m glad you’re here.”
You looked up, surprised. “Why?”
He shrugged. “You don’t talk to me like I’m a headline.”
“I don’t think I’m qualified to talk to you at all.”
He laughed. “That’s even better.”
━━
It kept happening.
By accident at first. Or at least that’s what you told yourself.
You’d be walking past the corridor, and there he was. Sitting on the edge of a low table, swinging his feet, sipping tea he never finished. He’d look up, beam like the sun cracked through a cloud, and say:
“Hello, you.”
You started keeping a spare cup in your bag, just in case he offered to make tea again. (He always did.) It was horrible every time. But it was yours. His and yours. In that echoing press-tinted suite, between recorders and flashbulbs, his half-whispered jokes and offhand glances were the only quiet things you had.
And he never got your name wrong. Not once.
The first time you brought lunch again, he opened the bag, looked inside, and then up at you.
“What’s this, then?” he said. “Spoilin’ me.”
You smiled. “Just leftovers.”
“You’re tellin’ me someone didn’t want this sandwich? In this economy?”
You laughed. “Eat the sandwich, Ringo.”
He grinned, tore the paper, and took a dramatic first bite.
“…Alright. You win.”
A pause.
Then, like it was nothing:
“D’you eat yet?”
You blinked. “Not yet, no.”
He scooted over on the couch and patted the spot beside him.
“Well, go on then. I can’t be the only one chokin’ on crumbs.”
So you did. Right there in a posh hotel room, shoulder barely brushing his, half-wrapped sandwich in your hand, trying not to stare at the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, or the smudge of whatever it was on his chin.
(You handed him a napkin. He missed and wiped it with his sleeve instead.)
━━
And so it went.
You’d bring papers. He’d ask what book you were reading.
You’d make a passing joke. He’d remember it a week later and bring it up like it was your shared secret.
Once, he looked over at you in the middle of a pause between interviews, with Paul making jokes to the press and John trying to balance a spoon on his nose, and he said, quiet-like:
“Thought about you yesterday.”
Your heart kicked.
He looked back at his tea.
“Just for a minute. But it was a good minute.”
You smiled, shy and stunned.
“…What were you thinking about?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. Just how you laugh sometimes. You do this little thing where your nose scrunches. It’s funny.”
You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but George interrupted, calling him over.
He stood, gave you a wink, and mouthed:
Good minute.
It wasn’t until the end of the week that it happened.
Another press day. Endless flashbulbs, tape reels spinning like clocks. You’d been running errands, mind buzzing, head down. You didn’t notice him until the elevator doors slid open.
He was already in it.
“Oi! Just in time.”
You stepped in without thinking. “Didn’t know I had a deadline.”
“Now you do. I’ve decided.”
You smiled, glancing down at your hands. Your knuckles were red from carrying too much. Your eyes ached.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
“Busy one today?”
You nodded. “Lots of running around.”
“You always look knackered by the end of it. You should sit down more.”
You gave him a look. “I’ll sit when I’m dead.”
He grinned. “Morbid. I like it.”
The elevator hummed as it rose. You leaned back against the wall, just breathing.
He watched you quietly.
Then:
“What’s your favorite sound?”
You turned your head.
“…What?”
He looked at you. Earnest. Tilting his head a little. “Sound. Y’know. Something little. Not like music. Just... something that makes your chest go soft.”
You blinked. That wasn’t a question people asked. Not in your world, anyway.
You thought for a moment. “Rain on windows. At night. When you’re warm inside.”
He grinned, big and genuine.
“Rain on windows,” he repeated. “God, that’s lovely. I’m nickin’ that.”
“You asked.”
“And you delivered.” He bumped your shoulder gently. “Fair trade.”
The lift opened. He left with the rest of them. You stayed behind a moment, staring at the space he’d been in.
Rain on windows.
You didn’t see him the next day.
Or the one after.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. It was always chance anyway. You weren’t part of their world. You were just a helper in the wings, holding sandwiches and papers and late coffees for overworked journalists. You weren’t someone he’d-
But then came the morning after that.
You were in early. Fog outside the hotel. Rain in the air.
You walked past the front desk, arms full of folders, and the concierge called out to you.
“Y/n, sorry, someone left something for you.”
You blinked. “For me?”
He handed you a small, square box. Wrapped in navy paper. String tied at the top. No note.
You stared.
Untied it.
Inside, soft and delicate, was a compact, round little record. A vinyl single. No label. No sleeve. Just the glint of grooves, and a small post-it stuck to the inside of the lid.
“Made it for you. Listen when it rains.”
Your chest tightened.
You turned the note over.
Underneath, scribbled in small slanted print:
Good minute.
—R.
You didn't get a chance to thank him that day either.
Press madness swallowed everything whole again. But the next time you crossed paths, by the lift, same as before, he looked at you with that soft, cheeky smile.
“So? D’you like it?”
You nodded, a little stunned. “You made that?”
“Went back down to the studio late. Asked the lads to piss off for an hour. Paul’s still whinin’ about it.” He grinned. “Only about a minute of sound, but figured it might make you smile.”
You swallowed. Heart in your throat.
“Thank you.”
He shrugged like it was nothing.
“Wanted to give you somethin’ back. You’re always bringin’ us things. Tea. Sandwiches. Calm, when it’s mad in here.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
A beat passed. You could hear your pulse.
Then he leaned in a little, not quite touching you, voice low.
“Next time it rains,” he said, “put it on, yeah? Think of me.”
“I already do.”
That made him go quiet. His mouth twitched up, then faltered, then steadied.
“Right,” he said. “Well. That’s alright, then.”
You smiled.
He smiled back.
And for a few long seconds, there was nothing else. Just the two of you, close enough to hear each other breathe, the murmur of the hallway gone quiet around you.
Then he added, barely audible...
“Can I… see you again? Properly, I mean. Not just in lifts and hallways. Like… dinner, maybe?”
Your breath caught.
“Yes.”
His grin returned, crooked and boyish and brilliant.
“Good. Great. Grand.”
He cleared his throat, stepped back, still smiling too much to hide it.
“Guess I’ll have to come up with another sound, then.”
You tilted your head.
“Why?”
He met your eyes, steady now.
“'Cause rain’s yours. Gotta find one that reminds me of you.”
hii i love your beatles fics!! could i request a paul mccartney fic with a reporter/journalist reader?? thanks 😋😋
a/n: thank you so much for the req! super cute idea!! this reader is specifically fem; I just wanted to note as usually my readers are more ambiguous
paul hadn't excepted you.
among the sea of reporters in their identical suits and haircuts, there you were. it was rather abnormal to see a female have such a profession; most women were nurses or secretaries if they were lucky, so seeing you just sat there, completely composed and relaxed, kind of shook him.
and you were sharp with the questions too. you were genuine, you didn't just ask questions about beatlemania or how they took their tea the way some reporters did. you asked real questions about the music, upcoming albums, tours. it was good enough to be asked genuine questions for once; being asked by a pretty girl was even better.
he definitely wasn't complaining when he noticed your eyes lingering on him for just a tad longer than necessary.
the rest of the boys noticed too, and practically pounced on paul when they managed to free themselves from the clutches of the press. "pretty reporter, eh?" john grinned, bumping his shoulder with paul's, enjoying the sight of his reddening ears. "sure seemed to take an interest in you."
"d'you know her, paul?" george asks, lighting a cigarette, bumping into a bin as he tries to catch up.
"no," his tone is a little grumbly, not enjoying being on the receiving end of teasing. "i probably won't even see her again."
and they drop it, finding something else to talk about. but paul can't pull himself away from you.
i probably won't even see her again.
the memory of his words go round and around in his head, and a small ache blooms in his chest. he doesn't even know you, knows nothing of you really except your profession and your face, but the idea that he will never see you again is daunting.
but the next day, he looks in the newspaper and there you are. well, there your article is. usually, he looks past any articles about him unless the title really intrigues him, but today he sits down, tea going cold, and reads the entire thing. twice.
it continues like this.
every time he gets a newspaper, he searches it for your name and reads whatever you've written. you could be writing about the paving of a car park and he'd read about it anyway.
the rest of the beatles tease him, waving the paper around just to watch his face sour in annoyance and embarrassment, but he doesn't stop. he'll interrupt recording sessions just to see what you have to say.
and still, he accepts that he's never going to see you again. it's been months, and no matter what press or interview he does, you never show.
he's already in a sour mood when he walks into the conference room, the bright flash on cameras pointed at him and questions already being thrown at them.
it's early and he can barely see with all the flashes, his ears already ringing with the sound of mindless questions being thrown at him.
but when he sits down and gets a proper look at the sea of reporters, he finally spots the face he's been dying to see. he feels like he's dreaming, seeing you sat there is your work attire looking like an angel.
you're looking down at your lap, flipping through your notes like you aren't in a room with the most famous band in the world, and for some reason, that lack of care makes his stomach flip,
to think he's been driving himself crazy over you for the past few months, and you don't even look up when he enters a room.
the conference goes on like usual; the typical mindless questions and over-analysing of song lyrics, queries about fangirls, girlfriends, whatever. when you ask a question, it isn't directed at him and it feels like a spear through his heart.
he still doesn't look at you with any less affection.
the conference is over as quick as it started, and paul escapes outside for a smoke before the boys can notice his mood.
"hello."
he jumps out of his skin, dropping his just-lit cigarette onto the floor. he's about to curse at whoever it is, grumble something, but when he turns around, he sees its you.
standing there in the dirty alley in your button-down shirt and mary-janes, you look totally out of place. you're holding a newspaper to your chest, but all he can focus on is your face.
"oh," is all he manages to get out. "hello."
"did you get my messages?" you ask, as if he's supposed to know what on earth you're talking about. he looks at you like you've grown a second head.
"messages?"
"in my articles." you say, face still calm as if this conversation is totally normal and not at all confusing.
he splutters a response. his brain seriously cannot wrap around what you're telling him, no matter how hard he tries to make sense of it.
"you didn't see them?"
"i honestly don't know what you're talking about."
you furrow your eyebrows, tilting your head like a confused puppy and he wills himself not to faint at the sight.
you unfold the newspaper, flipping to a page and holding it out to him. he reads it, and all he sees is practically gibberish. "what's this? it's just..letters, random letters."
"its caesar cipher." you say, as if he's meant to know what that means. your eyebrows furrow further. "moving the letters down three...a becomes d, you know."
"i think you're too smart for me." he chuckles out a laugh, looking at the paper, then back at your face. "what did they say?"
"usually just asking to meet for tea, or if you wanted to talk." you shrug. "thought you must've thought i was insane when you never responded."
"i didn't know, truly."
"would you have responded if you did?" you voice takes on a shyer tone now, nothing like the confidence and calmness you approached the situation with.
he feels a little bit of solidarity, knowing it's not just him going into this with a pounding heart and sweaty palms.
"yes." he nods, trying to keep his voice steady.
you nod, absorbing the information, and he thinks he sees a flush blooming on your cheeks. "would you like to? go for tea, that is."
he's so used to being the one asking, pursuing, so it gives his heart a little thrill to be the one on the receiving end for once.
baratheonpilled
snowghoul
theartofmadeline
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
origamiaround
