Chapter Text
February 1
Amazingly, Paul’s still asleep when John wakes up. He’s rolled naked in the blanket like a hungover worm and reeking aflush of Lush bath foam. John takes a whiff of his own hand and oh boy does it smell like babies and softness and everything nice in the world too. He nuzzles the back of Paul’s head, sweet and blissful and—
BREAKFAST.
Arse-naked beneath Paul’s bathrobe, he kicks open George and Ringo’s door. It’s half-past ten and their empty, unmade bed smirks at him.
“Hazza,” he shouts down the hall, “HAZZA.“
An indistinct murmur from the kitchen. John bounds over in four steps and a slide, and lands to a stop right in front of George, Ringo, the stove, and most shockingly, a woman.
He stares. His bathrobe billows open.
"Uh," says Ringo.
"Oh Lord," says George, flipping an egg in a pan. "We have company!"
John pulls the robe around himself tighter, while the woman, he squints, has just met his eyes. She's no spring bird; she has a weathered face that peeks out under long grey hair and solid white glasses. She looks like somebody's old grand-aunt, and yet he can't shake the feeling of being extra-scrutinised.
She smiles at him. "Hello."
"Yes," John nods at her quick. "Hey, I wanna help make breakfast."
"We're, ah, nearly finished," Ringo says, dumping a barrage of spoons in the sink.
"Oh c’mon, there’s gotta be somethin’ I can do.“
“Wake Macca then,” laughs George, a very slappable smirk glowing all over him. “We’ve made all the nosh.”
"Well, y'see, I told Macca I'd make his breakfast—"
The woman comes between them both, hands him a plate stacked with bread. He nearly steps back.
"Then maybe you can pop these in the toaster, dear?"
“But Missus,” George says in a sickly baby voice, “John doesn’t know how the toaster works.”
“What? I do!”
“Oh?” She chuckles. “Well, he’s just like my husband. We’d better teach him then—”
“An’ Paul’s banned him from usin’ it, actually.”
“Shuddup! That was like last year,” John shouts. “And who,” He points a very confused finger at the woman, “the hell are you??”
George stares daggers at him through mid-scraping a sticky omelette onto a new plate.
“I could ask you the same, really,” the woman adjusts her glasses in a way that makes John very much wish he had his. She smiles at George, and at a frozen Ringo at the sink. “I forgot there were four of you! John, was it?”
“Wh- what?”
“Agnes Henderson,” she puts out her hand. “I live right across.”
A snicker, probably George. Doing his best to refrain from lobbing the bread plate at his head, John shakes her hand. Ringo turns the tap on.
“...hi.”
“Hi yourself. You don’t look like a shy one.”
John grimaces. He’d just been epically tired at Paul’s idea of going to meet the neighbours when they were fresh in London, claiming he’d rather unpack the boxes and catch up later. And it wasn’t later yet.
“Ritchie, love,” she says smoothly, “Could you just pack me a Tupperware? I'm pickin' up my granddaughter.”
“Sure ya can’t stay?" Ringo pouts. "The eggs are famous, you know—”
John takes the opening to escape. He slots two slices of bread into the toaster and turns the timer.
“...so sorry to hear about the camp trip,” Mrs Henderson says. “Especially Paulie.”
“He’s a toughie. He’ll live,” George nods. “Thanks for the recipe.”
“Anytime! I’ve got to go,” she dusts her hands off. “Nice meeting you, John!”
“You too.”
“Lemme know if you have any toaster trouble, yeah? You shouldn't really, it's so easy! I’m right across you four.”
“Okay,” John groans. “Boomer.”
“What?”
John ignores her. He rocks back and forth on his heels, tapping the counter. The bread isn’t toasting. He’s a few beats in before he realises the thing’s unplugged.
“Agnes, d’you like trail mix?” Ringo asks as he ushers her to the front door. “Cause we’ve got way too much—”
The toaster starts heating up, and there’s a shuffle behind John. His eyes dart to the side just the slightest, and he and George are exactly back-to-back, at the counter and stove, barely two paces between the backs of their bare feet. He takes a quiet step to the right.
“Seeyou round!” Ringo calls.
John makes a start to run, but George still manages to kick him right in the ankle, despite having a twisted one himself. He stumbles just a little, elbows catching flat on the counter.
“Rude,” George says, not looking up from where he's wiping the stovetop.
“Excuse you,” John pulls himself up. “I’ve never met ‘er.”
“Doesn’t mean you can be a fuckin’ arsehole.”
“I— why the hell was she in here anyway?”
“Gave her a key.”
John promptly knocks over a squeeze bottle of mayonnaise. “YOU WHAT.”
“What? Needed someone to water me plants. I wake up and she's here doin' just that.”
“WHAT PLANTS??”
George blinks hard, as if John were simple. He points to the kitchen window, where a row of five tiny pots are lined up.
“Those are plants????”
“What did ya think they were??” George chuckles. “What the fuck, John.”
“They’re called succulents,” Ringo supplies helpfully.
“Oh, shuddup. Don’t ya have eggs ta cook?”
“They’re done. Go wake Paul,” George waves him off. “Better not let him see ya in his robe, though.”
“Fuck off! I was naked.”
“You don’t have ta tell us twice,” Ringo snorts, picking up his mug. “Last night was fuckin bangin’ wasn’t it, GeoaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAhHHH! ”
George jumps. Ringo drops his mug smack on the counter, and a HUGE COCKROACH spills out along with his tea. He wastes no time darting behind George, and John holds his breath. It’s shiny black and the size of a fUcking tennis ball. George snatches the spatula from the pan, but he’s still rooted to the ground.
“Well?” John hisses. George and Ringo exchange a look, and Ringo runs sharpish to the back of the kitchen.
“What the fuck.”
The cockroach starts flying.
“WHAT THE FUCK,” screams John. He ducks as it flies at his head, wet wings bouncing it into the wall and back over to George, who slices the spatula left and right like a blind blade.
John shoves the toaster out of the way, a near miss to George’s swing. And yet the roach lands on the tip of his nose. He flattens himself on the counter with a screech, elbow on the mayonnaise, and splatters George with a burst of white sauce. Then scream, crack, smash. John blinks rapidly, one knee on the counter. George, smeared in mayo, stares down at the floor at a mess of striped shards and crushed cockroach, equally splattered spatula shaking in his fists.
THEN Ringo returns, armed with a Combat spray. He takes one look at George, John, the mess on the floor, and sighs.
The toaster goes off.
~
Paul wakes and sits up with a start. He has a thick bandage wrapped around his right elbow, and gawks at it for all of one moment before the heavy smells and boar grunts wash over him like an insistent tide. He lets out a groan and drops back into the pillow, pulls the covers over his head. The curtains hovering above his face blow up, and light flits in just to spite him.
He isn’t getting up. He’ll get breakfast in bed if he has to. Hell, he’ll make John bring it on a tray and call him Sir Princess Mademoiselle Señor for all that he’s worth; he’s not getting up. If this was what being in charge was like, he could definitely live with it. And John’s already kept his promise.
Paul’s just closed his eyes again when Bohemian Rhapsody’s Galileo sends the whole room into a spike. He slaps his bedside table, cursing the whole world on silent mode, and accidentally clicks Accept Call. Ugh, fine. Whatever.
"Hullo?"
"Hi, Jamie."