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John hurried over to Forthlin Road as soon as he heard, ready to give Paul a right telling off— a moped accident for christ’s sake!
But John left his anger along with his boots at the door, which he had kicked off in a rush. Mike ushered him inside, just as Paul came around the corner.
“Hiya John—” John couldn’t see much, but could hear Paul’s cheerful voice falter, and see what was clearly blood on his lip.
“Christ. Christ, Macca!”
John slipped on his glasses and examined Paul properly. One of Paul’s eyes was swollen and half shut and there was a gash on his forehead. But his lip looked to be the worst of it. Paul was wincing against his split and bloody lip.
John’s immediate response was to bring his hands up to cradle Paul’s face. He froze mid movement, his hands posed in front of him, realizing where he was, and what he was doing. He awkwardly brought them down to his sides again.
“It really looks worse than it is..”
John very much doubted that but—mostly to get himself out of doing something insane, if he kept staring at Paul—he turned to Mike. Apparently it had been a joy ride with the two McCartney brothers.
“What about you, Mike?” John took a closer look at Paul’s younger brother standing next to him, as always holding a camera. “Did you end up unscathed?”
“Yeah, I’m ok,” Mike held up his arms for inspection, “A couple of scrapes, but nothing like our kid here.” He gestured to his brother, who looked to be a bit dazed.
John knew that look. “Fucking hell, Paul. You’re stoned. No wonder it looks worse than it is.”
As he looked back Paul shrugged nonchalantly. “You’re just mad you weren’t there to partake with us.”
“I have my own grass, thank you very much.” John had a couple of his own spliffs tucked away in his luggage. After spending the day with family and with this whole mess, it would be even more necessary.
“But, that’s besides the point! Why would you go off like that with your brother? And high? You could have—“ John could feel himself getting worked up. That anger he was meant to leave by the door had made its way back to him.
Paul and Mike just stood there as John ranted, both still totally blazed. Knowing Paul, he probably talked Mike into lighting up again after the accident.
He brought down the accusing finger he had pointed at a still out of it Paul. He took a breath. He needed to get out of the room and calm down. “Did you clean yourself up at all? Let me go grab something,” John made to leave the front room and move to the kitchen before stopping himself. “Wait, where’s the old man?” John wasn’t about to start rifling through the place if Jim was on the loose.
“Da’ is still at cousin Bett’s house. Doesn’t know yet.”
Only good thing that John had heard since he arrived. It had been a while since he had seen dear old Jim and he wasn’t ready to feel like a teenager again: Jim going off on John, like this was somehow his fault.
“But hold off for a sec on the clean up,” Paul continued. “Mike’s gonna take me picture. Want to show ‘em I can be more than the cute Beatle, all roughed up.”
John rolled his eyes. “Oh, fucking Christ.” John directed his wrath now at Mike with a glare. “You’re going to allow this?”
Mike shrugged, it had been a long time since he had been intimidated by John. “He insisted, wants to have documentation of it all too I guess. Wouldn’t let me clean him up either. I did grab the first aid kit at least, but not much in it.” He pointed to where it was sitting on the coffee table.
“Well, take the bleeding picture then!” John said standing up. “Mimi’s neighbor is on his way, soon we’ll get that stitched up. But I’m cleaning you up first!” John left them to it and headed into the kitchen.
Mimi’s neighbor being a doctor was the only reason John even knew this had happened and was here. Mike had called to see if he knew a doctor available. It was late and Boxing Day after all, they had not been able to find anyone.
John grabbed a few supplies and came back to the sitting room where Mike was lining up to take another shot of Paul standing against the wall.
Paul looked truly awful, John couldn’t stand it any longer, he needed to step in there. Once Paul’s high wore off he was going to be finally feeling that pain.
“Okay, okay that’s enough, shutterbug.”
Mike stepped away with his hands up. “Got a couple of shots, I’ll go and develop them.”
Mike went up the stairs, where his Dad still kept his dark room, leaving John alone with Paul.
“What have you done to yourself, Macca?” John could hear the fondness in his own voice. Paul wouldn’t as he was still looking foggy while John gently pulled him towards the couch. John sat down next to Paul, their knees brushing lightly.
John started with the wet cloth. He leaned across and dabbled it onto Paul’s split lip.
“Fuck!” Paul pulled back, bringing a hand up to his face.
“That natural anesthetic wearing off is it?”
“Ow, shit, that hurts.”
“I know. Just let me take care of this.”
Paul clenched his jaw as John continued to clean up the blood from his face.
Dr. Carter arrived a bit later than John had expected.
John realized as the doctor sat and got his supplies ready, with shaking hands and a light sheen on his red face, that this man was quite drunk. When John had phoned up the doctor earlier, he had told John he still needed to finish up dinner, which apparently included a decent amount of liquor of some sort.
“Doctor, do you think I really need stitches?” Paul said as he saw the needle. “It’s just a scratch right?”
Dr. Carter’s eyes flicked to Paul’s split lip. “Sorry lad, yes. It’s a deep cut.”
This was John’s own fault. He had brought this drunk doctor here, and now John was going to allow him to put that needle into Paul’s face. What else could he do? They didn’t have many options this late on Boxing Day and a drunk doctor was better than no doctor he supposed. Paul clearly needed stitches as his lip was split in two and still bleeding.
Paul watched nervously as Dr. Carter struggled to thread the needle, the man looked about ready to stab his own finger. “Oye, one of you lads couldn’t give us a hand could ya?”
Mike looked glad to be given a job and hopped up from the armchair to take the needle and thread. He brought the needle closer to the light on the side table, his steady hands able to thread the needle quickly.
He passed it back to Dr. Carter. “Ta, lad. Now then Mr. McCartney, you ready?”
“Don’t you need to, I dunno, use some anesthetic or summat? Isn't this going to hurt?”
The doctor swayed to and fro. “Whoops. Knew I forgot something. But it’ll be ok. You seem like a strong lad, seen you on the telly dealing with those mad fans. This will be nothing, don’t worry, m’boy.”
Paul gulped, but nodded.
Much like earlier when John had had the urge to cradle Paul’s beaten and bloody face, he was now itching to grab Paul’s hand. Especially because now the doctor was moving towards Paul with the needle and Paul was already wincing. John couldn’t stand it anymore, he stood close to Paul and permitted himself to place one hand on Paul’s shoulder.
“I know you’d probably prefer your bird. You’re seeing that actress right? But since your friend is the only one here next to you,” Dr. Carter said, the needle wavering unsteady in front of him. “You may want to take his hand, Paul. Squeeze it nice and tight, I’m sure John won’t mind.”
Paul didn’t need telling twice. He reached up and grabbed John’s hand, clutching it with all his might as the needle was finally inserted into his lip.
Paul was holding his hand in a death grip and John felt his face redden slightly— what Mike must be thinking! Here he was just holding Paul’s hand all casual-like. But it had been the doctor’s suggestion after all, Mike wouldn’t think too much about it.
Nevertheless here he was blushing and holding Paul’s hand. He couldn’t lie, he liked the feeling of Paul’s hand in his. He had imagined taking Paul’s hands many times before. John even began to stroke his thumb along the back of Paul’s hand—as best he could manage with Paul still clinging to John for dear life. He wanted to soothe Paul, as Paul clearly just wanted to scream and writhe in pain.
Paul managed to hiss as the doctor continued to pull the needle in and out of his face, the doctor’s eyes struggling to focus. John couldn’t do much more than stand there as as Paul bared this torture, gripping tightly to John’s hand.
John knew this was supposed to feel wrong. He wasn’t supposed to like the touch of his best mate’s hand in his, stroking it as he was. John had been having these sort of feelings for a while now, this hadn’t even been the worst of it. But now he had finally started to put a name to them, to himself only. If he even breathed a word of it to anyone else, if said he was queer, it would ruin their group. Most of the time, though, he just let these feelings live as an undefined mass of thoughts and moments swirling through his brain, not wanting to feel the shame of it all.
Once it was done, Paul came back to himself and dropped John’s hand abruptly. But he had still taken it in the first place. That had to at least account for something.
Paul lightly placed a few fingers against his now sewn together lip.
“Leave it be,” Dr. Carter said, gathering up his measly supplies. “Those stitches need to stay in for now. But you’ll heal quickly. They can come out in probably a week or so.” He stood and offered his hand to Paul. “But it’s been a pleasure, Mr. McCartney. Can’t believe I got to stitch up a Beatle.”
“You’re not going to go to the press are you?” Paul asked as he shook the doctor’s hand. John hasn’t even thought about it at all. In Liverpool when he was away from Cyn and fans and staying with Mimi, it was easy to transport himself back to before: when it was just Paul and him, simpler times.
“My lips are sealed.” He mimed zipping his mouth closed.
"They better be! Or I’ll sic Mimi on ya! She’s certainly much more frightening than any lawyers our manager could come up with.”
“But maybe just an autograph for my son and daughter before I take off? Big, big fans!”
He and Paul signed a couple of extra fan photos Paul’s dad had laying around and sent him on his way.
Mike went up to check on the photos, and John and Paul were once again left alone, side by side on the couch.
“You’re really doing alright now?” John said, his voice still laced with worry. The stitches looked a bit crooked. “Sorry about the crap doctor.”
Paul shrugged. “It’s alright. M’fault anyways, stoned moped ride and all. The moon just looked so beautiful.”
“That moon gaze better have been worth it. Hope you got some moon related lyrics up there, McCartney.”
Paul snorted. “I honestly wasn't thinking much of anything. Not much beyond—“Wow look at that moon!” —And then suddenly I was looking at the pavement.”
“Well you gotta be more careful. The cute Beatle’s gotta maintain that face of his.”
John could still remember the panic that had gripped his chest when Mike had phoned— “There’s been an accident.”
The panic that had continued to grip him as he made his way over to Forthlin Road. But now here Paul sat, with a couple of stitches and what looked to be a chipped tooth.. But he was going to be okay.
Before John had even half a thought to stop, his hand was around Paul’s cheek, caressing it fondly with his thumb.
Paul looked at him as best he could from beneath his long eyelashes. His one eye was still swollen and there was a hint of dried blood John hadn’t managed to clean, but he was still his Paul. Still alive, still beautiful.
Paul didn’t say anything, but he didn’t pull away from John’s touch either.
John wanted nothing more than to kiss Paul, right then and there on Jim Mac’s old couch. The room where this had all started: the music, the fame, everything— them .
There were many reasons he couldn’t, he shouldn’t; Paul’s newly sewn lips being top of the list. Oh and Paul’s probable rejection.
But there was a hope that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t outright reject him, especially with the way Paul was looking at John. He didn’t look at George or Ringo like that. John could at least say something. Paul had to know how he felt. What if he had lost him…as he had so many others in his life. Paul would never know.
“Paul—I—”
But before John could say or do anything—that was probably stupid— they heard Mike tromping down the stairs.
And like earlier when John had held his hand, Paul slunk quickly out of John’s touch. He turned to look at his brother who was brandishing the newly developed photos.
“Oye, Paulie. You look properly roughed up. Maybe you should go to the press about this. It may put an end to the cute Beatle nickname!”
The moment was lost. But John wouldn’t hesitate next time.
