Title: Be-Bop A Lula
musicNanimefreak aka BeatleLOVE aka maccamandy
Undefined (for now)
Nothing is mine except for Maddy, Sadie, Kat, and Leah, and a few spare miscellaneous characters.

A/N: "Bizzies" is common Liverpool slang term for the police. It was invented as the police were always too "busy" to help. An alternative explanation of the term is that the police are seen as "busy-bodies" i.e. that they ask too many questions.

(Ta to Wiki for that wonderful explanation~)

Maybe he'd had one too many Prellies that night. Looking back, he didn't remember much. Nothing but a flurry of bright colours and a few select moments, like John stumbling over the lyrics and Stu's constant jumble of notes that he called a pathetic excuse for a bass line. And yelling. Well, at least it'd seemed like yelling to him. He'd constantly been scolding and chiding them onstage, shooting them death glares whenever he got the chance. And girls. Lots of screaming girls. So, basically a standard night for them, really. Nothing special or out of the ordinary.

He'd tried catching a glimpse of those birds from before, the feisty ones with the guitars, but the smoke and crowd was too thick to see through learly. And the dizzying combination of several Preludin mixed with a few pints of beer might have helped with that as well. "Oh, well…" he mumbled to himself, practically wrestling his way to the barstool next to John. The older man quickly glanced in his general direction, offering a grunt to show he had, in fact, bothered to acknowledge Paul's existence as he sipped from what appeared to be his third or fourth tankard. "Tryin' ta get pissed already, ey Johnny? Isn' it a li'l early fer ya?" Paul smirked cheekily, elbowing his bandmate.

"No, ya queer." John rolled his eyes, shoving his elbow into Paul's side in retaliation. "'M jus' enjoyin' meself, is all." He watched as John's eyes quickly scanned the surrounding area, absentmindedly sipping at his drink. "Ey, she looks awful nice, doncha think?" he grinned, scoping out another bird.

"I though' ye were gonna go afta' one o' the gals from earlier." He cocked a brow at his best mate, fiddling with his leather jacket's sleeves. "Ya seemed quite taken with 'em. Though' ye were gonna try an' lay one o' 'em after their gig." His glass casually raised to his lips, eyes darting around while he searched for them yet again. He figured they were setting up by now, but still his curiosity overcame him. He wanted another look at those four new faces.

"Eh," John mumbled into his tankard as he quickly downed the rest of the bitter golden liquid. "Seemed a bit difficult, ya know wha' I mean? Too much effort."

"Lazy arse," he rolled his eyes. John could be such a sloth when he wanted to be.

"Wha', are ye gonna try?" John turned to cock an eyebrow at his fellow guitarist, taking the new glass the bartender handed him. "Which one, ey? The blonde?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. I really don' care, honestly. 'M jus' sick o' all these German birds, ya know? All the same." He paused to take a drag from his newly lit cigarette, watching the smoke gracefully curl from past his plump lips. "Whicheva' one's easiest, I suppose…"

"Ey, ya carn't ge' mad a' me an' start accusin' me of bein' the lazy one, then!" he playfully nudged the younger boy, grinning over at him.

"Oh, shaddup, Lennon."

"Ey, lads!" They both looked up to find a beaming George walking over to them, twisting through the throngs of people. "Busy night, ey?"

"Yea, ye could say tha' again." John grimaced. "I could barely find me way ova' 'ere! 'M amazed the tap 'asn't run out yet, with all these bloody arseholes."

"Ah, shut it." Paul shoved him just enough to make him teeter slightly on his seat. "The more, the betta', I say. More publicity, ya know."

"Oh, whateva', Paulie. Doesn' matta' anyways—"

"Cor, both o' ya jus' shu' yer traps!" Their wrists were soon being yanked by the youngest in a failed attempt to be dragged somewhere or another.

"God, wha's got yer knickers in such a twist, Georgie Porgie? Di' the Bizzies finally come ta round us up or somethin'?"

"No, ya dunce!" He frustratedly stomped on the rhythm guitarist's boot, earning a short yelp from John.

"Well, wha' is it, then, Geo?" Paul's eyes were wide with curiosity.

"Those girls are jus' startin' up now. Though' ya migh' wanna watch 'em." He pointed back over his shoulder toward the stage behind him, where it seemed a small crowd was gathering.

"Oh?" He couldn't help the excited gleam flash in his eyes; he was eager to see how well (or shoddy) they performed.

John aggrivatedly rubbed his barely injured foot as he shot the skinny lead guitarist a glare. "Well, why didn' ya say tha' before ya nearly pinched my toes off?"

"Cos." George rolled his eyes irritably. "Ye were bein such an arse, as usual."

"I was no—"

"Oh, jus' can it, Johnny. I wanna see em play." Paul quickly left his uncomfortable barstool to find a closer table to the set. He didn't see any point in checking if they were following him or not; he was going to watch either way. After a couple seconds, he found a table to lean against and was quickly followed by his closest mates who decided to stand on either side of him, each with a fag and pint in hand.

"'Ere comes Ringo," George gestured over to their left to a small-ish man with drumsticks sticking out of his suit pockets.

"'Ey, Rich," John nodded to the Hurricanes' drummer.

"'Ey," he waved, joining them at their table. "Wot're ye three doin', anyways? Aren' ya done fer the night?"

"Yea, but there's this new band we jus' met, ya see," Paul nodded toward the stage at the act now setting up. "Call themselves The Starbyrds."

Ringo furrowed his brow slightly, examining the latest act. "Starbyrds, hm? They any good?"

"We dunno," George shrugged, taking a sip of his beer. "Jus' met 'em, like we said."

"Ah…" His eyes aimlessly wandered from face to face on the stage, a little intrigued at an all-girl band in Hamburg, usually the only birds a guy could find were groupies or cheap German sellouts, looking for an easy lay. That worked fine for most of the guys, but it was quite a change for a lad coming from little Liverpool. Most got used to it. The sex, the drugs, the alcohol all present in the thick air. Rich found it a quite difficult to imagine these four girls holding out in such a corrupt place. They seemed like such daintly little things, really. He was so lost in his cloud of thoughts, he missed their introduction and jolted back to earth as the song started. "Never know how much I love you, you never know how much I care…When you put your arms around me, I get a feeling that I just can't bear…You give me fever…" It sounded familiar, at least. "…when you kiss me, fever when you hold me tight…Fever in the morning, fever all through the night…" He'd probably heard it on the radio or something, he figured…

Paul blinked a few times in slight shock. Hell, they were good. No…they were bloody fabulous. Their harmonies blended perfectly into the music, the beat was steady. He found it quite bold to start with such a slow song, but he couldn't argue it wasn't a perfect choice. He smirked to himself when he was almost certain that Maddy girl'd given him a wink.

"Bless my soul I love you, take this heart away…Take these arms I never use them…And just believe what my lips have to say…You give me fever, when you kiss me, fever when you hold me tight…Fever in the morning, fever all through the night…"

Maddy grinned and shot the crowd a wink, practically purring the lyrics into the microphone. "Listen to me baby, hear every word I say…No one can love you the way I do…Because they don't know how to love you my way…" As soon as she'd heard the song on the radio all those years ago, she'd known it was perfect for them to sing. "You give me fever, when you kiss me, fever when you hold me tight…Fever in the morning, fever all through the night…"

Oh, how she loved driving the crowd crazy.

John couldn't help it. Their chemistry onstage intrigued him, they were like a perfectly solved puzzle. Why didn't his band sound like that? They were fuckin' shit compared to those girls. Sure, he and his boys had made the audience beg for more tons of times, made them dance 'til they collapsed, had them chanting their name. But no, they were a bloody shoddy mess compared to these birds. Their performance was so tight, well-practiced. They made The Beatles look like a grotty heap. He hated it.

"The sun lights up the daytime, the moon lights up at night…" she sang. "My eyes light up when you call my name…Because I know you're gonna treat me right…You give me fever, when you kiss me, fever when you hold me tight…Fever in the morning, fever all through the night…"

John's eyes hunted the stage, looking for that secret something that made them so damn good. They're instruments weren't any better than what he or Paul or any or the other guys owned, cheap pieces of shit. Maybe it was because they all seemed so into it, so enthusiastic. And it wasn't that fake, hyped-up-on-Prellies enthusiasm, either. Genuine euphoria just to play on a crappy stage like the Kaiserkeller's. He shook his head, confusion lining his face. They were used to performing at high-end clubs like the Top Ten, not crappy little gigs at half-assed shitholes. Now he understood why he and the lads were stuck sleeping in filthy, freezing, shitty run-down cinema's storerooms like the Bambi Kino. He just couldn't figure them out, and it bugged the hell out of him. He'd figure them out eventually. He was determined.

"You give me fever…You give me fever…Oh yeah…Fever all through the night…"