Archive of Our Own

And love lies bleeding in my hand. Oh, it kills me to think of you with another man.

“When did you see him last?”

John looked up at him, blinking. They were just outside the back alley exit at Record Plant East, smoking cigarettes after what Reggie thought was probably their best take of “Whatever Gets You Through the Night.” He was buzzing, all hopped up on nothing but John and music and nicotine. For once.

“Who?” John’s voice was casual, and Reggie didn’t really know him that well, but then again he’d been listening to the guy for what felt like his whole life.

And he’d been listening to him go on about Paul Fucking Wings? McCartney all day.

Reggie was finally at a point where he felt he could roll his eyes in John Lennon’s presence, which he counted as a personal milestone of sorts. Over the past couple of years he’d met an alarming number of his heroes, but John was a cut above all of them. Not just in terms of his importance to Reggie Dwight’s development, but in terms of how readily John had simply … accepted him. Not as one celebrity to another, or one celebrity to someone he saw as an upstart, or one celebrity to someone who felt threatened by a rising star, but just… as John. Reggie had never met anyone who was so effortlessly himself while still giving off the impression he wasn’t entirely comfortable with who that was. The hard and soft, the world weariness that nevertheless could be cut instantly by a fascination with minutiae that felt as pure as a child’s. It was enthralling. 

“I don’t remember. March 28th.”

It was Reggie’s turn to blink. John wasn’t looking at him, watching a pigeon at the mouth of the alleyway, smoke curling past his glasses.

“That doesn’t–”

“I mean it was the 28th of March and I don’t… actually remember it.”

Reggie had also had days like that. Weeks, even. He bit his lip, trying to figure out if John wanted to actually talk about it? Or go back to bitching about whether “Band on the Run” was an encoded message and if so, which of them was stuck inside four walls, and who the jailor was, and which of them was the first or second man there. Either was fine, really. John Lennon bitching was actually fairly high quality, as these things went. Actually John Lennon doing anything was entertaining.

“LA?” John had started calling it his “lost weekend.” Reggie thought as a joke. He wasn’t entirely sure it was past tense, but then again, it was in the middle of John’s supposed wanderings he himself had discovered cocaine, and here they both were actually working on something really good , so. Maybe this was just what life as a rock star was like. Maybe nothing was truly lost. Or everything was. Maybe that’s what the joke was. It was so hard to tell.

“Yeah. I mean. I know it happened? I know he showed up, an’ we played. There’s… tapes of it. Can’t listen to ‘em. Was bombed out of me mind, of course, and if I know Paul he tried to keep up.” He dragged a hand over his face. “Christ, if the papers ever got hold of that. Beatle Reunion Marred by Aging Rock Legends Unable to Fuckin’ Stand . He an’ Linda came round, I think they tried to say something to me about Yoko.” John shrugged. “Dunno why ‘m telling you all this.” He fixed Reggie with those ironically all-seeing eyes of his. But when he didn’t supply an answer, Reggie did.

“Because you know,” he said slowly, “that there are things I can’t say, either. To anyone else.”

John blew out another stream of smoke, but for now his cigarette dangled, forgotten, in his hand. “You and Taupin,” he said, a change of subject that he knew was anything but. 

“We’re just good friends,” Reggie said archly, eyebrow raised.

“Right. And that’s all you ever wanted, yeah?” John was staring right at him, pinning him from behind tinted lenses, but without any malice. Instead, there was an odd sort of need emanating from him. His demand revealed a vulnerability Reggie had never seen before.

Reggie swallowed. “No,” he said. He wondered if he should, if he needed to, elaborate. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, but he probably would, because. John Lennon.

“I’m sorry,” John said, and suddenly his body shifted diagonally as he leaned against the wall, removing them both from such high scrutiny as he recalled his cigarette and took another drag. “S’not easy, is it? Singing those lyrics he writes, making something that beautiful together and knowing, you know.” He shrugged again. 

“You could’ve made something else.” He didn’t phrase it as a question, which gave John an out because he needn’t have answered. But John just looked at him again, and nodded. And Reggie knew that, whatever boyish crush he himself might be nursing, whatever fantasy he’d vaguely wondered about fulfilling here, and whatever John said about his separation from Yoko, it was something else he wanted, something else that weighed on him. Something that had a hold on him that went back further than anyone else could touch.

It was tragic, really, and Reggie knew, because he, too, understood the pain of longing for someone who simply did not, and would never, see you in that way. Even if it seemed absurd because in every other way that mattered, they did. The revelation of just what John was pining for here, and who, shook him, partly because he felt he should’ve known and partly because holy fuck it’s the bloody Beatles and John is in love with Paul.

“I think it’ll be a hit,” Reggie blurted suddenly, the weight of the moment having become too much. It was the first thing he’d thought of, casting his mind back to what they’d been talking about before all this. He thought vaguely he was protecting John, and after a beat of confusion he thought maybe John looked a little grateful. 

At any rate he snorted, back to his lean, acerbic self. “Haven’t had a hit since ‘The Long and Winding Road.’”

“In America,” Reggie qualified.

“In America,” John agreed. 

“Well I think ‘Whatever Gets you Thru the Night,’ will be the one,” Reggie said. He’d just been trying to distract the other man, but the more he said it, the more convinced he was. Plus, John was loosening up again, on familiar territory, and Reggie wanted to keep that going.

John snorted. “Wanna bet?”

“Yeah, all right,” Reggie said, frowning. “I bet you it goes to number one. In America. And if it does, you…” He pondered for a second. “You have to come sing it with me. On stage. I’m playing Madison Square Garden this fall.”

He laughed now, a bark of laughter Reggie was becoming extremely fond of being able to elicit. “Right, okay,” he said. “Fine. If it gets to number one, I’ll play Madison Square Garden with you. Now c’mon, you old sod. They’ll worry I’m out here corrupting the youth.”

I was playing rock and roll and you were just a fan, but my guitar couldn't hold you so I split the band.

He wasn’t exactly sure how it happened. He’d gone to Nashville to talk to someone about maybe producing a record. And then, suddenly, in one of any number of studios dotting the landscape, there was Paul McCartney. He hadn’t even been thinking about the man, though of course the conversation with John had been rolling around in the back of his mind ever since.

“Oh, hey, Elton,” Paul said in his mild but engaging way. Like he was delighted to see you but always just this side of surprised and maybe on his way elsewhere. All of which might be true. Reggie had no idea. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Could say the same,” Reggie said, taking in the man in a whole new light, John’s oblique words offering another lens. He’d never really been attracted to Paul; his attention had been held by the man’s talent, which had overshadowed all of Reggie’s other thoughts when in his presence. But taking a step back, he could admit Paul looked amazing. Healthy and relaxed, a little thicker around the middle, in the midst of undoubtedly yet another creative frenzy in the wake of yet another success.

“Oh, just laying down a few tracks,” Paul grinned, then winked. “Don’t tell anyone, though. Not actually s’posed to be working, this trip.” Reggie had no idea if he meant legally or if it was a joke about some sort of self-imposed vacation, but he was under the impression Paul McCartney’s idea of an ideal vacation spot was actually a studio. Paul’s idea of a lost weekend was probably, like, an hour.

“Mum’s the word,” Reggie murmured, and he was trying to figure out how to extricate himself before inadvertently revealing the entire bizarre conversation with the man’s estranged songwriting partner in which he had figured largely when Paul looked around as if for spies or something and said,

“Hey, can we talk?”

Reggie blinked. “Erm. Sure. Of course?” It wasn’t a question but frankly, even after all the fame, he guessed it was still a little bit weird to have an actual Beatle (not John) wanting to pull him aside for a chat. What did he want? Had he heard about the recording session? Uncharitably, Reggie wondered if Paul wanted a little of the Elton name on his brand, but that made no sense. That hadn’t been how it had happened with John, and neither of them needed his help anyway.   

They found an unused office and, without asking anyone, commandeered it. Reggie figured Paul had been doing this for so long it didn’t even occur to him that someone might need this space. The other man crossed his arms and leaned against a desk. Reggie tried to settle in and opted for a chair.

“I heard you worked on the next single,” he said. 

“Yes,” he said. “Congrats on ‘Band on the Run,’ by the way. It’s really something. I mean, it’s out there.”

“Thanks.” Paul waved a hand almost dismissively, but something told Reggie it wasn’t that he wasn’t aware of the praise or that he was immune to the compliment. Something else was on his mind, and he was sure of it when he saw Paul’s hand go to his mouth as he began to worry at his finger. “How is he?”

Those famous eyes fixed on his, dark and liquid, and the nervous hand remained at his mouth.

“Erm. He’s good, Paul. I mean. I think the new single is going to do really well. It’s the best thing he’s done in awhile.”

Paul nodded. “Great, great. No, I mean… that’s good. Obviously.” He ran the offending hand through his hair. “I meant more, ah, you know. How he’s doing .”

You could call him , Reggie thought, but then he thought back to what John had said. About March. About Paul coming round, and John not being in a fit state to even remember it. And wondered suddenly how he’d gotten in the middle of this. What was this, grammar school? No, he was being unfair. These two had a complicated history; personally, creatively, and hell, legally. It was fraught. John would want him to reassure Paul, he thought. 

“Oh. No, he’s good, really. I mean, he’s working. He seems driven, you know? Sharp. Lonely, though.” God, he felt awkward talking about John this way. John had confided in him, and Reggie knew something he wasn’t supposed to and something Paul didn’t. 

Paul’s expression clouded, and he nodded. “I guess he and Yoko still aren’t…?” Reggie shook his head. “Mmm.” He seemed to shake himself a little, refocused on Reggie’s eyes again. “I know it looks like I’m going round his back, or something. It’s just, half the time I don’t know if he’ll pick up, and when he does it’s fifty-fifty whether he bites my head off, y’know?”

Reggie did not know, because John had actually never bitten his head off, but he nodded anyway. Turned out he probably hadn’t needed to, because Paul was going on.

“It’s just that I…” Paul bit his lip. “I always wonder how he’s doing. What he’s doing. Was a time we shared everything. But lately, when I try to connect, he just… It’s like I can’t even touch him. You know, you spend that long with someone, writing together, singing together, creating together, and you wonder…” He shook his head and Reggie realized he was not breathing. He could not be hearing what he thought he was hearing. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, May’s great. Love ‘er. And Yoko’s obviously everything he was looking for.”

Yes , thought Reggie, because that’s a totally normal connection to make when you’re talking about your ex-songwriting partner . 

“I’m not sure why I’m saying all this to you,” Paul said finally, brow furrowing slightly. 

Reggie shrugged. “You know he respects me as an artist,” he said, “and you know we’ve been working together. I think that’s natural, to, ah, be curious about that. For what it’s worth, it was just one of those things. I dropped into the studio, sang some backup. Played some piano.” He took a deep breath. “But I think it’s something else, too, Paul. I think you know I understand what it’s like. That close working relationship; it’s not the type of thing most people experience.”

“I’m not jealous,” Paul said, and for what it was worth, his tone was more surprised than defensive.

“That’s not really what I meant,” Reggie said.

Paul’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Maybe I’m jealous a little.” Like he was just stating a recently learned fact, holding it up to the light and turning it this way and that.

“That really seems like something you should–”

“You and him, you aren’t–” Paul started up straight and held up a hand, his expression stricken. “God, I’m sorry. That’s… Jesus. That was totally out of line, Elton. I’m sorry. Please, forget I said that.”

Reggie stood up. Took a step towards where Paul was about to collapse in on himself. “It’s all right. I know I’m the shameless fag in the circle. But that’s really something you need to talk to him about, Paul.” He paused. “But also, no.”

Paul stared at him. “I can’t talk to him about that… kind of thing. Never could.”

Reggie honestly wasn’t even sure which part Paul meant . Working together? Envy about who was in the studio with him? The fact John couldn’t be in the studio with him when he was sober? Or… something else?

They parted amicably, if awkwardly, but Reggie couldn’t stop thinking about it. Because he’d been sure that John’s take was, if shocking, correct. Whatever John felt, Paul didn’t return it. But now Reggie wondered. Which really wasn’t his place, because if John was committed to the idea that, first of all, things were over between him and Paul and second, that Paul was committed to a life of heterosexuality, who was Reginald Dwight to object?

But maybe that was exactly the point. Maybe it was because he wasn’t straight that Reggie saw through the notion of straightness, or irreconcilable heterosexuality. Maybe because there had been a time he’d thought he was straight. Maybe because there were still times he felt a stirring of something for a girl, despite everything. Or maybe it was just because, as much at peace as he now was about Bernie, there was a part of him that would have wanted someone else to try, if they were his friend. Not that he really thought it’d come to anything. Paul seemed… pretty straight, after all. “Maybe I’m Amazed” was possibly the straightest song Reggie had ever heard. Good, sure. But extremely not gay.

Then again, it was extremely not straight to get possessive about your ex-songwriting partner possibly hooking up sexually with another male singer-songwriter. 

“Hey,” he’d said as they’d been walking out, almost an afterthought, “the band. In the song. What are they running from? What’s it about?”

Paul had stopped and smiled, a private, almost smug smile. “Oh, that,” he said. “That’s about all of us being rid of Allen Klein. We’re free. We can write whatever song we want, now.” 

I wonder if those changes have left a scar on you. Like all the burning hoops of fire that you and I passed through.

Somewhere between Detroit and Montreal, Reggie got the news. “Whatever Gets You Thru the Night” had beat out “You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet,” which he personally found a bit of a relief. And his first thought was that he needed to get a call through to John.

“Thought you’d forgotten about that,” came the voice on the other end of the line, wary and on edge. Which was not exactly what Reggie wanted to hear from the holder of the number one single in America.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” Reggie coaxed. “We won’t even tell anyone. It’s not like they’ll be shelling out the big bucks to see you–hell, the thing’s already sold out. You’re just a friend, settling a friendly wager. You wouldn’t want to back out on a promise, would you?”

He hadn’t said anything to John about meeting Paul. He wasn’t sure what he’d even say, if he wanted to. Your ex got really weird about you and you and me particularly and between us, mate, I’m not sure you were right about there not being anything else.  

John laughed on the other end, and Reggie felt a surge of relief and a thrill of anticipation lance through him. “Fine, fine. I’ll do it. Haven’t left the house in months anyway.”

Reggie really hoped that was an exaggeration, but as he hung up something nagged at him. His original conversation with John, when this had all started. The whole reason he’d come up with the bet, to distract them both. He’d assumed that because John was comparing him and Paul to Reggie and Bernie, that the problem was the same. But he’d made that connection on his own.

He called Paul’s publicist. And, because he was Elton Hercules John, he got the number at EMI, where Paul was of course working on yet another album.

“Bit of a surprise to hear from you, mate,” Paul said easily on the other end. John and he could not be more different, Reggie thought. No wonder they needed an interpreter. 

“Hopefully not a bad one?”

“Never.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard about John’s song, over here. Number one, and all that?”

“Oh, yeah. Congratulations, that’s great.” For what it was worth, Paul really did sound delighted. “It’s really good, isn’t it? I mean, you know, you’re on it. But yeah, man, ‘Out of the blue, or out of sight, It's all right, it's all right,’ that’s good stuff.”

Okay, Paul had already memorized the lyrics. While working on his own record. Reggie wondered how anyone, even the press, had ever considered them capable of indifference toward one another. This gave him the confidence to move forward with what was, perhaps, one of the stupidest plans he’d ever concocted. And he couldn’t even remember all of them.

“Yeah. But the reason I called, Paul, is… he’s going to play with me. On Thanksgiving–that’s the 28th–at Madison Square Garden.” He swallowed. “I think you should be there.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“No, I really think you ought to–”

“No I mean, he’s not been on bloody stage in two years. How’d you get him to agree?”

Reggie laughed nervously. “I, ah, bet him. If the song made it to number one, he’d join me. He didn’t have the faintest idea I’d be able to cash it in.”

Paul giggled on the other end, that was the only thing for it, until finally he was laughing outright. “Oh, good for you. That’s great. Yeah, sometimes you’ve got to go ‘round the back way to get him moving. Well done, Elton.”

“Well, thanks, Paul. But really, like I said–”

“You think I should come.”

“Yeah. I do.”

A pause. 

“Why?”

Reggie pondered that. “Well, you don’t know me that well, and you’re free to hang up on me if you think I’m crazy. But I’ve spoken to you recently. And I’ve spoken to John. And even if it’s none of my business, it really seems like you two are doing a shit job of talking to each other, and I know you’ve always been better when music’s involved. And I just really, really think he’d like you to be there.”

Another pause. Reggie could practically see Paul chewing on his fingers.

“He’d like me to be there, but you’re not going to tell him I’m coming.”

“Erm. No.”

“Yeah, probably for the best. Look, Elton, I’ll check my diary.”

Reggie frankly thought it was a miracle he hadn’t been hung up on for overstepping. Which just made him all the more certain there was something here for him to, if not fix, at least help along to a point where at least these two knew what it was they were not actually talking about.

“I’ll leave your name with the door.”

“And you really think he’ll be okay with my being there.”

Reggie did not exactly believe it without a shadow of a doubt, but he did think it needed to happen one way or another. “I think that it’ll be too late by the time he knows anything about it, and that you’ll be there as my guest anyway.”

Paul laughed again, but there was a nervous edge to it. “Yeah, all right. I’ll do my best. And, ah, Elton? Whatever it is you’re up to, I know you think you’re doing the right thing. So whatever happens? Thanks.”

That was probably the best he was going to get, so he heaved a sigh of relief and rang off.

You're a bluebird on a telegraph line. I hope you're happy now. While if the wind of change comes down your way girl, you'll make it back somehow.

“Seeing as it’s Thanksgiving, we thought we’d make tonight a little bit of a joyous occasion by inviting someone up with us onto stage. And I’m sure he will be no stranger to anyone in the audience when I say it’s our great privilege, and your great privilege, to see and hear Mr. John Lennon!”

John appeared, a thin dark shape with a large white flower. Reggie wore one, too, but the attention of the crowd was, at this point, all for the prodigal son. Reggie didn’t mind in the slightest–he’d fought hard to get John here. They were going to start with the song that had started the whole bet.

The man hadn’t exactly tried to weasel out of it, but he had taken his time dipping his toes. Reggie both could and couldn’t understand it. After all, John had lived through Beatlemania. And while that might turn anyone off, at the same time he had to know that nothing could ever be that bad again. Then again, Reggie had his costumes and his feathers and his antics. In his day, John had had to make do with a suit and three would-be clones to take the attention off.

There would be no mistaking John and Paul for one another now. Paul was safely backstage; the flowers had been from him, which Reggie privately thought was a little over the top, but John had gladly accepted the anonymous donation to his outfit, enjoying the stark contrast.

He’d gotten over his stage fright by joining Reggie in his dressing room in Boston a few days before. And they’d gone over the set-list: only three, John said, because it was Elton’s show. And no “Imagine,” because he didn’t want to be like “Dean Martin pulling out his hits.” The easiest thing, of course, would be to do the one they’d recorded together, the one Reggie had recorded that John had written, and a third. “Something older,” Reggie had prompted. “A throwback. The way we both love the old rockers; that’s how these kids feel about the early stuff.”

“‘I Saw Her Standing There,’” John had said softly, studying his hands. Reggie had frowned.

“Did you write that?”

“No,” John had said with a little smile, “or not exactly,” but he hadn’t elaborated, and Reggie left it there. He was getting what he’d wanted.

And in the moment, it really was everything he could have asked for. John had been sick before going on, but that wasn’t all that unusual in performers and once he was out there, he was on . He knew this song, felt this song, reveled in his renewed relevance, and when he got to “I won’t do you no harm” something felt familiar to Reggie in a way he hadn’t noticed before, couldn’t place.

And what John didn’t know, what would have rendered him unable to go on at all, was that Paul was listening. Reggie felt a secret swell of pride along with a rising tide of anxiety that it would all go horribly wrong.

“We’re gonna do a number now which is written by a certain gentleman on the stage and Mr Paul McCartney. And I wanna hear you raise that roof, come on. This one’s one of the best songs ever written. Here we go.”

He’d taken some liberties with “Lucy,” but that was the whole point of interpretation and he knew John liked what he’d done with it. By the time they’d finished, Reggie was starting to really settle into the surreal feeling of actually playing with a fucking Beatle on stage. 

Until he noticed, from the corner of his eye, Paul edging from the backstage area as they sang. His blood ran cold, wondering if John had noticed, wondering what he’d do if he saw him, worried the whole thing would be lost in this one moment. He was distracted enough that John actually stepped in.

“I’d like to thank Elton and the boys for having me on tonight. We tried to think of a number to finish off with so I could get out of here and be sick, ha, and we thought we‘d do a number of an old estranged fiance of mine called Paul. This is one I never sang; it’s an old Beatle number and we just about know it.”

Reggie’s eyes flicked back to Paul as they launched into “I Saw Her Standing There,” the crowd absolutely transported. Including the secret invited guest, who Reggie saw was drifting closer, who would, shortly, possibly be in view of the man singing his song.

Paul looked utterly radiant. Several years younger, not that he needed it, and with such a beatific smile you’d think angels had just come to personally bless him. In that moment, Reggie saw maybe what John had seen in him. But he turned his attention to John just in time to see John notice him and freeze. And then, to Reggie’s everlasting relief, he smiled too. Something electric passed between them, a current no one else in the room could touch or divert. And they finished the song, and the crowd screamed louder than they’d ever screamed for Reggie Dwight, and then John was gone and Reggie was forced to launch into “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” knowing only that John and Paul were elsewhere.

Hopefully together.

A week later, he got a postcard. It was postmarked from Key West, and had your standard palm trees and maudlin greeting on the front. On the back, in a scrawling hand, was the message: “Never enjoyed losing a bet this much. Haha who’s laughing now? Love, John” Added, in a smoother, loopier hand, “and Paul. We never will be found!”