temporary fix || george harrison

60%

THE BOYS left the studio some hours later, after a hilariously poor recording session. As if I needed another thing to feel horrendously guilty about- I wasted their time and money today as none of their tracks from today could be feasibly made to fit the record.

Brian and I thought it best that I hung back for the evening, and allow the four of them a breather. Also code for: giving George more time to process what the actual fuck was going on before he determinedly decides he wants me to bugger off forever.

To top it all off, I could not fucking fault him for never wanting to see my face ever again. I lied to his face for months, and at the 11th hour I all but disappeared into a puff of smoke without so much of a warning.

And so here I was, pathetically draped over the all-too fancy plush down comforter in some all-too fancy hotel that I couldn't bother to remember the name of.

What a bloody joke.

Whoever, whatever sent me spiraling back to the past had a damn wicked sense of humor. Or they liked to torch ants under a magnifying glass. I'm  feeling like the ant right about now.

With a loud and self-flagellating groan I rubbed at my eyes harshly, dragging my hands across my face with pure defeat.

The sound of the telephone ringing sharply pulled me from my pool of self loathing, and I rolled my torso over the width of the bed to answer. Instinctively I searched for caller ID, but bit my tongue as soon as I remembered that I was about 50 years too early for that.

Picking up the receiver handle I sighed softly and answered with a prim greeting, knowing it was probably Brian checking in or hotel staff calling to dry clean my clothing. It would give them quite a shock to hand over my skinny jeans and silky camisole, a reaction I would no doubt love to see.

"Ah a bit touchy at the moment aren't we Miss. Bishop." John Lennon's snarky voice filled the end of the receiver, and my heart plummeted into my stomach it felt.

I screwed my eyes shut and grabbed the bridge of my nose as I felt a rising wave of frustration and well, irritation pull at the back of my throat. Leave it to Lennon to jump right back into the frying pan, despite himself. The man didn't very well know how to let sleeping dogs lie.

"Why are you calling, John?" I pressed him sharply, muttering under my breath that Kronos couldn't reach me so he sent me John bloody Lennon in his stead.

A bristling laugh, and a soft click of what I presumed to be a door echoed in my ears and I cringed harder than I thought was humanly possible. The dog bastard was calling me behind George's back, yet another reason why I should whack him over the head with a rolled up newspaper.

"Didn't see ya after your...arrival. Jus' wanted to make sure you got on alright." His voice almost sounded sincere, almost genuine enough that I bought his performance. He was a great actor, truly, Oscar winning, true operatic theater.

I paused for a fraction of a second too long, and John persevered, I could practically hear the rousing mischief in his voice.

"You show up like a whirlwind and then abscond to whatever itty bitty corner of the planet tha' Brian could manage for you." In so many words, the bastard was calling me a coward, and I couldn't very well blame him for it. Nor did I bother masking my groan into the receiver.

"Way to call a spade a fuckin' spade, John." I bitterly sniped at my former best friend, feeling the beginnings of a headache of monumental proportions fester behind my eyes. I was hungry, exhausted, haven't showered since the night before and utterly washed of any social graces. I needed a hug, to be quite fair.