Chapter Text
“You’ve been gone for bloody Ages” Ringo whines over the phone as George desperately tries to weave his way through the oncoming stream of people filing down the thin New York sidewalk.
“Rich, I’ve been gone for three days” George replies with a sigh. Ringo groans dramatically in response.
“Three days is practically a century in England though”. George laughs shortly.
As he looks up at the skyscrapers that encase him inside this over crowded city he feels a sort of resentment towards being a working class citizen. Stupid fucking job. Out of all places on planet Earth, they had to send him here for two months. The place that smells like piss and cigarette smoke and is filled with people who are all equally angry about it. George wasn’t sure how many times he had been shouted at today but the number had to be in the hundreds. He was punished for walking quickly, walking slowly, for not getting in a cab fast enough, for not stepping forward in line immediately after some space opened up. It appeared that all New Yorkers were obsessed with time, George doesn’t know how though. The skyscrapers and the dense layer of smoke that covers every inch of this god forsaken city block out so much sun that it’s hard to tell if it’s 9am or 11pm.
His gaze is pulled from the rooftops of buildings back down to the street as a man hits his shoulder harshly with his own.
“Watch where you're going!” the man shouts angrily before continuing on his path.
“I wouldn't worry too much Rich, I'll get out of this fucking city as soon as I can” George says to Ringo who is only half listening.
He can hear his friend scold his house cat even through the crackly reception he has in this part of the city. “You better, mate - Korky, get the fuck away from that plant! - If you are not back soon I will come get you myself - I swear to god I will crucify you on the neighbors fence if you knock that over”.
“I see that cat is still as mischievous as when I left” George says as he comes to a stop at a crosswalk.
“Like she would ever change” Ringo says, his voice sounding far away as he gets up to retrieve said cat from the window sill.
“Little bitch is still a menace”. If George had a penny for every time Ringo voiced his resentment towards cats to him he would need to be traveling to New York for his job because he would be a gazillionaire. He’s heard the same spiel so many times that he could practically recite it by heart now. ‘It’s Maureen’s fucking cat’ he says. ‘Just because she broke up with me doesn’t mean I should be stuck with it!’. George always tries to comfort him by saying that maybe she just doesn’t trust him yet and that some cats are skittish. But Korky always chooses that moment to crawl into George’s lap and start purring loudly.
“Tell the boys I said hi, would you?” George says.
The light changes at the crosswalk and once again he is ushered forward.
“Will do. Of course, if you acknowledge their existence, they will be begging for a phone call every night, especially Paul” Ringo replies. Paul, John, Ringo, ...the boys. George’s breath almost hitches as he thinks about them. It’s too early to be homesick though, he tells himself. But then again, he’ll be stuck here for two months with not even so much as an acquaintance. George groans quietly as he scolds himself internally for taking this job that has stolen all of his time and forced him to be places that made him wish he was dead.
“I’m sure” George says in response.
Just then, something darts around George’s feet. He looks down just in time to see a curly white tail disappear between the legs of a group of businessmen with a bright pink leash trailing behind it. George says a quick, “Got to go” into the phone before hanging up and heading in the opposite direction, ignoring Ringo's protests as he hits the end call button.
He forces his way against the current of bodies and brushes off the constant stream of annoyed comments aimed his direction. George almost gets close enough to grab the leash but then gets shoved back by a shoulder or leg and has to start from square one over and over again. George sighs annoyedly. Any normal person would let it go, classify it as something that is not their problem. But George, he couldn’t bare just walking away. What if the poor thing gets lost? He thinks. Or even worse, wanders into the road? Which is looking like a legitimate possibility seeing as he can’t get close enough the damn thing to catch it.
But then, finally, he steps on the edge of the leash and the dog stops in its tracks. Quickly, George scoops up the small terrier in his arms.
“Hello there darling” He says affectionately, moving off to the side, out of the way of the rushing bodies.
“Are you lost?” He asks, but the dog doesn’t answer of course, only stares at him clueless with his black, beady eyes. The dog's expression reminds George about how Ringo looks when he doesn’t quite understand a joke. His eyes unfocused, his head cocked to the side, complete and utter confusion evident on his face. Maybe Ringo's a dog person and that's why Korky doesn’t like him, George thinks to himself. He smiles at his sweet face but whips his head around when a voice breaks through the loud ruckus of the city.
“Buck!” It yells, sounding frantic and worried. George figures that there is a good possibility that this is the dog's owner seeing as Buck is a pretty unusual name for a human. He watches the people as they rush past, waiting to hear that voice again.
“Buck, come here you lil’ shit!” The man’s voice yells once again.
‘Yep, it’s definitely him’ George thinks to himself.
The voice sounded closer this time so George tightens his grip on the small dog and jumps back into the crowd, advancing the opposite direction as almost everyone else. Then, so fast that neither of them knew what happened, the two crashed together in a heap of limbs, and white fur.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” the man says.
George stands from his place on the sidewalk and the man does the same. It’s in that moment that George simply takes a second to process the features of the man's face in front of him because, well, there’s a lot to process.
George thinks that to say that his hair is curly would be an understatement. He suspects that if you stuck your hand into the mass of brunette curls that lay atop the man’s head you may not get it back as his hair weaves around in endless circles, forming a net of sorts.
The next thing George notices is his eyes, blue, unusual for someone with such dark hair. But they were blue, crystal blue to be exact.
Then, George’s eyes traveled down to the man’s clothes. His wrinkled button up was only halfway tucked into his jeans that were at least two sizes too big and being held up by a thick brown belt. The hems on the pants bunch up at his feet, allowing only a sliver of his dirt caked boots to be seen.
And finally, to tie the whole look together, he has a guitar slung across his back, who’s strings hadn’t been trimmed the last time they were changed, each one shooting off in different directions like cat whiskers.
He certainly is interesting.
After the man reorients himself, he too can take in the other man's features. He doesn't get too far however and stops when he lands on what George is holding. Like a switch, the man’s eyes went from full of worry and concern to absolute, pure joy.
“Buck!” He says, taking the dog from George’s arms.
The dog immediately crawls up on his shoulder and starts licking the man’s face.
“Thank you so much for grabbing him. The little fucker is always getting away from me” He says, taking his eyes off the dog for a brief moment to look at George.
“No worries, he’s a cute dog” George responds.
The man smiles and nuzzles his face in the dogs fur before offering out his hand.
“Bob, Bob Dylan” He says, ignoring the dog who has now resorted to licking log stripes up the side of Bobs face.
George takes his hand and replies with “George Harrison, dog catcher extraordinaire”.
Bob laughs at his comment before saying. “Where you from man?, I don't hear that accent very often”.
“Liverpool, Speke to be specific”.
Bob nods in response as if he knew exactly which town George was talking about and visits there every other weekend. George can see Bob physically jump as he remembers an important thought. He digs through his back pocket briefly before pulling out a crumpled up flier.
“If you're interested, I’m performing at a club tomorrow tonight, I play mostly folk tunes but I take requests” Bob explains as he hands the piece of paper to George.
‘Bob Dylan. Cafe Wha? April 5th 9-10:30’
“The whole reason me and Buck we’re out here, braving the streets of New York, was to hand out these fliers” Bob says, setting the dog back down on the ground and wrapping the leash around his hand a few times for good measure.
“I’d love to see you there and get to know you better Mr. George Harrison. I’ve always wondered what life is like across the pond”.
George smiles and folds the flier up into a square before pocketing it.
“I’ll try and make it” He says, hoping that his boss for the next two months won’t hold him back later than usual.
“Well, nice to meet you and thanks again for catching Buck here” Bob says before turning the direction he was headed before he had to sprint through the masses of people to retrieve his West Highland White Terrier.
“Nice to meet you too” George says as he turns as well, falling back in line with the afternoon lunch rush.
He laughs quietly to himself as he thinks about the man's whole demeanor. Bob Dylan puts off the vibe of your classic tortured music artist who finds pleasure in charming any woman he lays his eyes on before leaving them high and dry without so much as a phone call. ‘Of course’, George thinks, ‘He’s just as fake as the rest of them’. However, George could not deny that the man was attractive and most likely did not have any trouble when charming said women. He could not think of anyone who could deny a set of crystal blue eyes and curly brown hair.
George shakes his head and refocuses on his journey to work. When he realizes where he is, he comes to an abrupt stop and backtracks a few steps, having passed the building without noticing. As George pushes his way through glass double doors of the building he will call “Work” for the next two months he is met with a harsh blast of cold air. He shivers and continues walking, his shoes making a clicking sound on the marble floors. ‘Why did this place even install those things?’ George thinks. He’s sure it has something to do with saving money when it comes to air conditioning costs and keeping bugs out but still, the unpleasantness of it should overrule the couple of cents they get to save on their monthly bill.
He waves quickly to the receptionist who doesn't return it and focuses on her monitor as he turns to find the elevators. He presses the button for floor six several times once inside, and sighs as he feels it start to move. The sooner he can get into his office the better, he’s eager to finally sit down at his desk, alone, and do what he is being paid to do, code.
Five days a week, eight hours a day, George sits in front of a computer screen testing and evaluating software. He’s aware that it's not the most interesting job in the world but it pays the bills and he's good at it which is the whole reason he was sent to New York in the first place. None of the other employees at Georges workplace were efficient enough to be sent overseas at the company's expense.
The elevator dings before it opens its doors and allows George to step off. His shoes don't click as the floors on this level are covered in thick grey carpeting. He rushes past the isles of cubicles, hoping that he looks busy enough to not get stopped by anyone.
Nevertheless, just as he is mere steps away from the door of his office, George feels a hand grasp his shoulder. He groans quietly and plasters that friendliest looking smile he can muster on his face before turning around.
“Hey there George!” his coworker says with a massive toothy grin plastered on his big, red face.
“Hello Michael” George responds, shifting his weight back and forth awkwardly.
He then spends the next five minutes trying desperately to end a conversation about soccer - “Or do they call it football in your country, right George?” - before he fakes a phone call from his mother and excuses himself.
He sighs and closes his eyes once he is sat behind his desk. He runs a heavy hand across his face, thanking every God imaginable that he has finally found some peace and quiet. As soon as he stepped off of the plane, George quickly realized that nothing is quiet in this city. The people, the buses, the cars, the cafes, the restaurants. Any moment of silence was a blessing in New York City and George simply sat there bathing in it.
But, as fate would have it, his Boss bursts in at that very moment carrying a giant heap of paper.
“We just have a little bit of paperwork for you to go over this afternoon, no biggie” he explains before unloading the paper onto the desk and George could swear that he saw the wood dip and strain under the weight.
With a quick ‘Thanks bud’ his Boss exits the room with a little salute in Georges direction.
Once he again finds himself alone in his office, George strangled the air in front of him, wishing so badly that it was his bosses neck. He then crumples on the desk, burying his face in his arms and sighing.
Today is going to be a long day.