GagaMcCartney: English Tea

They all four assume that she's a new girl on staff because they had never seen her before, and they are almost certain they would have noticed her if she had been around in any capacity beforehand. She has peroxide blonde hair and streaks of black, and even in the white smock-uniform that studio workers were made to wear they can tell she is a bit nutty, even before she tells them to call her Gaga, though her name tag says she is Stefani. They assume she is new, and so assume she must be a gofer. She brings them tea during break, sets up a little fold out table and pours it for all of them, even George and Norman Smith, who come out of the soundbooth to join them.

The boys discuss her shortly amongst themselves when she goes back to her cart to fetch biscuits. They talk about her hair and her figure, her name and her accent (she is clearly American, though from where exactly they can't quite pinpoint--they don't have that exposure, but she is not Southern, and Ringo assumes she is from New York, because it is a good place to be from, when one is American). They just smile at her when she comes back, and she smiles at them too. They call her Gaga the Tea Lady, and she doesn't seem to mind.

Paul pays her the least attention, as he hasn't joined the others in their little crowd around the table. He has too much to think about for the album, and decides that is more important than tea, and stays amongst the instruments. While they rest, he makes his way over to the piano and starts to work his fingers over the keys, exploring chords. The other boys try to call him over, but he waves them off and remains at the bench, and they shrug. They have known him for years--he is Paul and Paul is a workaholic, and that's his business. Nothing to waste tea and biscuits over.

The tea lady doesn't seem to think so, however, but Paul ignores her as she tries to coax him over to the table. He doesn't acknowledge her, barely hearing her repeating his name again and again, and after a while the cooing stops, and he goes back to his music while the rest of the studio is full of on-break conversation and occasional laughter. John is telling a story, pulling the others in, and Paul becomes forgotten and left to work.

Or so he thinks.

She approaches first with an outstretched tea cup, near his cheek where he can see it. He leans back away from the cup, fingers still seeking out chords even in this new twisted position, and utters a polite and distracted "no thank you," but she ignores him. The cup nudges closer to fill up the space he has vacated, and he leans back further, though his arms can only stretch so far. The pointed look he gives her does little, but his own perseverence wins out, it seems, when he is playing with just the barest tips of his fingers and she finally draws away from his face and settles the cup on the top of the piano.

Once more, or so he thinks.

He doesn't know what to say or how to react when she clambers on top of the piano and puts her feet on the keys so that he cannot play, and when he tries she plays a sour note with her heel.

"What in the world--"

"You should take a break."

He gives her more pointed looks, all pursed lips and raised eyebrows--McCartney looks, which are not outright displays of anger, he'd say, but more of calm but simmering annoyance. He considers asking George Martin to send her off--she is a gofer and he is a Beatle, and she should not dictate when he can have his breaks and when he can work--but decides not to. At that moment, the tea-drinkers off to the side were engulfed in a John story, but Paul knew they would notice the new staffie sitting on EMI property within a minute. He talks to her instead.

They pay me to make music you know.

Not on your breaks, they don't.

I'm not paid by hour, just by my output. So technically I make money any time I sit down and write.

You'll go sick or crazy if you don't take a break, and how will you make money then?

I'll just write music in bed, then. Geroff.

She smiles at him and shifts, and he thinks for a moment she is getting off the piano, but instead she reaches for the tea cup and settles it on his lap.

He grunts, slightly annoyed, and tells her with a half laugh that he is a workaholic--perhaps she doesn't know, because she is new here, because she is the peroxide blonde American who just stepped in today and doesn't know how to deal with beatle Paul. So he tells her how it is, that he works, and everyone else knows to let him be, because he can't turn off, can't stop until he's finished, and that is how things have always been, so she should perhaps drop the issue.

She replies with a smile and by telling him that she is a workaholic too--can't stop working, really, just like him. Not until a job is done. The tea lady says this with a look at the tea cup still sitting defiantly in Paul's lap.

It takes him a moment to understand, but then he laughs. He thinks perhaps he should be more annoyed, but he surprisingly isn't, and finally he reaches down to take a drink from the tea. It takes 3 sips and a bite of biscuit before she moves off the piano, though not before playing a simple tune with the heels of her boots.

"You should take care of yourself," she says, in a tone more mothering than Paul would expect from a woman who had dyed black streaks into her hair (or was that a wig? he wonders now after seeing it a bit closer up). The smile she gives him is soft, and she pats him on the head, and he knows he should be irritated at that, but it feels like the touch of a loving aunt and he doesn't have the heart to do it.

He plays another few chords, putting the tea aside half-drunk, in part to spite her, and yet, perhaps not that far.

"You're barmy," he calls after her, as she makes her way back to the tea table.

"Nah, she's Gaga," George calls back past a mouthful of biscuit.

Well. Paul smiled. Couldn't quite argue with that.

---

TIME SHEFUCKINNANIGANS. CUZ MAH JOHN STUFF WAS STARTIN TO MAKE TOO MUCH SENSE, SO I WANTED TO MAKE A THINGY THAT MADE LESS SENSE, SO TIME TRAVEL. IDK i wanted to paint

I THINK I DID THIS BECAUSE SLEEPING IS FOR LOSERS AND I DIDN'T FEEL LIKE BEING A LOSER TODAY, I JUST FELT LIKE A CRAZY PERSON. IMMA GIT ALL YOUR BEATLES EVENTUALLY. YER JUST GONNA HAFTA WA*passes out holy shit*