Chapter Text
“You know you’ve got to do it, don’t you?” George struck a match on the side of his shoe, effortlessly relaxed in one of the plush armchairs of their suite. “Before she gets the wrong idea and thinks that you haven’t actually been interested in her these past three years.”
“I know, I know,” John groaned. He leaned back in his own chair, wishing desperately for a smoke as well. The only thing preventing him was his headache and the knowledge that a ciggie would make it worse. “But it’s not that easy, George.”
“Do you love her?” George asked, voice almost a drawl.
“Yes, but that’s not the point,” John tried to explain.
George didn’t care. “And I can sure as hell say that she loves you.” He took a drag. “So, that seems to suggest that, you know, you just do it.”
“But it’s not the same with her,” John insisted. He clasped his hands between his knees. “She’s… it’s more than love between us. It’s a whole partnership. I can’t foul that up just on account of loving her. It wouldn’t be fair to her, or to you or Ringo, if us two got married and then divorced and it ended what we all have with the band.”
“You’re in a very generous spirit today with all of this, aren’t you?” George mused. “Rather unlike you.”
“Well I’ve got a bloody good reason, haven’t I?” John challenged, irritation suddenly needling him. George’s cigarette smoke and the low light of the suite wasn’t helping. “Also it’s not like her dad would be thrilled to have me in the family, would he? Considering how he’s nearly made my balls into Christmas decorations on multiple occasions.”
“Now you’re just looking for reasons to back out.”
John cast him a dirty look. “Don’t tell me you’re not intimidated by dear old Jim.”
“Maybe when she and I were kids, yeah,” George allowed, “but not since I’ve grown up. Become, you know, an adult. An adult capable of asking the woman I love to marry me.”
John’s eyes narrowed further. “You’re already thinking about that with Pattie?”
“I mean yeah, I guess.” George shrugged, but a bit of colour had lighted on his cheeks. “We’ve been together close to a year now. Can’t say I don’t love her, don’t see a future with her.”
“Well when she’s become your songwriting partner and your musical sounding board and helps you be a better person in every conceivable way—”
“John—”
“And then when you’ve proposed to her and she’s said yes and you’ve been married a year and it hasn’t ruined everything you’ve both worked your whole life for, let me know and then maybe I’ll think about doing that with Paul.”
George snorted, but not unkindly. He knew Paul nearly as well as John, having met her when she still went by her first name, Mary after her mum, and having grown up with her and having learned to play guitar across from her.
It was just a bit different with John. George had only ever felt for her as a friend, but John had fallen head over heels almost as soon as he’d seen her, long dark hair pulled back and a small flower pinned to her white jacket. The fact that she then played guitar better than everyone in his band hadn’t hurt either, and she’d been invited to join the next day. A few years later, after quite literally hundreds of hours of time spent pining over her, John had finally vomited enough words out of his mouth to ask her out.
She’d said yes, which George had predicted nearly a year in advance, and John became at least somewhat less of a nervous wreck around her. Not long after, the band, now with George and Rings, began rising through the ranks of groups locally, then nationally, and now they were on the world stage.
Somewhere along the way Paul had started going by, well, Paul. It was a shortened version of her middle name, Paula, and the name John always called her before they were together, a nickname of some kind that had been his attempt to not let slip darling or baby when he had desperately wanted to. Now it was that name that appeared on everything to do with the band, from record sleeves to rubbish magazine blurbs to decent newspaper articles and press releases.
It was more than a name, though. It was tied to a person, after all. To a young woman from the working class in perhaps Britain’s grimiest port city who had defied all manner of expectations for her gender and place in society. Who could not only sing and play piano, but scream like Little Richard and play both the guitar and bass. Who could not only perform hits but write them as well. Who didn’t want to be in a girl music group so had thus become the only member of an otherwise male rock and roll band.
And someone who was perfectly presentable to the public yet unapologetic about who she was. She was polite and well-spoken, but she also clapped back with no degree of hesitancy. She knew exactly what she was worth, what other women like her and all women in general should be worth, and she wasn’t going to shrink away from the space she took up.
John had been a bit intimidated by her at first, truth be told, but the more he knew her, the more that bold nature attracted him. He was practically smitten, if such a word could be used for someone like him, and had been for the past three years. It was, in George and Ringo’s opinion, more than past time for John to act on it in a more serious way.
Both of them knew Paul would say yes to a proposal: she had told George she would, the two of them still being best friends despite her dating John, and Ringo had overheard her talking about the prospect to her brother on the phone one evening, a slightly disappointed tone when she confessed over the line that John still hadn’t asked.
Brian, too, hadn’t a problem with it. He’d rather resigned himself to the fact they’d be getting married eventually when he signed on and saw John Lennon, someone with a reputation about Liverpool that was hardly one of mild manners, pull out a chair for Paul at the initial signing meeting. He insisted they keep their relationship as secret as possible, though, for the sake of having publicity be about their music and not them, but they hadn’t objected in the slightest. Both of them were naturally private about their personal lives, and neither wanted their faces in magazines for being an attractive couple instead of a prolific songwriting partnership.
The only variable in the whole situation that was proving to be a problem was John. Irritating, really, when one considered that he was one of the two most important parts. George knew Paul would normally have had no trouble in asking John herself, but over the last few weeks, as time ticked past their third-year anniversary, he’d detected some hesitation from her. A bit of worry, maybe, that John didn’t see their relationship the same way she saw it. That he didn’t want the future she wanted. Why would anyone propose when they didn’t think their partner would say yes?
So nothing had happened from Paul’s corner of the ring, and now it was decidedly John’s move. His reservations made sense, George supposed. The band had been to America twice now, once for some television performances and then again for an actual concert tour. They’d been successful — more than that if the screaming girls for the three of them and the lads for Paul (and maybe some blokes for them and gals for Paul, too) had been anything to go by — but their return trip hadn’t been planned or even assured.
They still had album deals to think about, too, and as much as George wanted to have a bigger hand at writing songs for them, he was well aware just how prolific the partnership between John and Paul was. The majority of the songs would come from them, no doubt, and they’d be bloody fantastic, too.
Not to mention the clause from earlier about their whole relationship being hush hush. A marriage would certainly make that more difficult.
Anyone in their right mind would be worried about messing all of that up.
A sticky wicket, as his dad might have said, and not one he could solve for John, George reflected. He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and then pushed himself to his feet.
“Well, you can sit here being a poke as long as you want, but I’m headed to bed,” he yawned just as the door to their suite opened. “We’ve got that taping tomorrow morning, remember.”
“Who’s being a poke?” Paul’s voice entered the room from the entrance door, followed closely by Ringo’s.
“Probably John,” he chuckled. They both came into view a moment later, Ringo in his suit trousers and button-up, Paul in her slightly tighter black trousers and a smart green jumper. She had a peacoat over it, unbuttoned, and John had to stop himself from staring. God, she was beautiful. “He wouldn’t come to the bar, after all.”
“Right you are, Rings,” George affirmed. He stretched his arms over his head. “How was it down there?”
“It was alright, I guess. Good drinks,” Ringo allowed, glancing at Paul. “Had a bit of trouble there at the end.”
John tensed immediately. He knew that look. The one that George or Ringo had when someone had made a pass at Paul but she hadn’t wanted anyone to worry about it. Hadn’t wanted to make a scene that would end up in the gossip rags.
“It was fine,” she said, predictably dismissive. “Just some bloke with too much drink in him.”
“Paul,” John began, rising from his chair, “we’ve talked about this. If someone says or does something like that—”
“You’ll take care of it,” she finished for him. “But it wasn’t anything big. Not worth blowing our cover or breaking the bar over.”
“You’re sure?” John pressed. He knew Paul liked her independence with things like this, could handle herself more than capably, but he still worried. It didn’t help to have memories of all the close calls they’d had in Hamburg.
“I’m sure,” Paul promised. She smiled, a real one. “Now, what was this about you being a poke?” Her eyes danced, beautifully hazel in the light from the corner lamps.
“Ah, umm,” John glanced at George, silently pleading for a lifeline, but merely received a shrug in response. He swallowed. “Nothing, love. Just George having a friendly go at me.”
“Oh.” Her face fell, sensing rightly that she’d been kept on the outside of a larger discussion. “Well, I guess I’ll be off to bed, then. Going to shower tonight instead of tomorrow. I’ll see you in our room?” Her expression was almost heartbreakingly hopeful, as if maybe John didn’t want to join her.
George could have smacked him across the face for making her start to doubt just how loved she was. “You will, don’t you worry.” He tried for a knowing wink, but Paul could only muster a weak smile in response.
“Goodnight, everyone. See you in the morning.” She pushed herself up on tiptoe to kiss John’s temple. “Remember your glasses if you do any reading tonight. I love you.”
With that, she padded off toward her and John’s bedroom, gently closing the door behind her. When the shower started, George gestured in the direction of her departure.
“There goes your girl, mate, a fucking fabulous one in practically every way, beginning to think you don’t love her.”
“But I do!” John sounded like he might cry. He brought his hands to his temples. “She has to know that!”
“ We know that, but she might not if you don’t do something about it.”
“It’ll be alright, John,” Ringo assured. “You’re already great partners in music now while being a romantic couple. Marriage just makes things a bit more official on that end.”
“I know, I know,” John sighed. He dropped his hands. “I just, I can’t mess this up, you know? She’s the best bloody thing that ever happened to me. I couldn’t… I couldn’t lose her.”
George understood that worry of John’s all too well. He’d lost so many people in his life already, at such a young age, but at least they hadn’t left on purpose. A failed relationship with Paul would result in just that: her leaving because she wanted to. He stepped forward to pat John’s shoulder.
“You keep doing like you've been doing the past three years, just add the proposing part in there soon. It’s gonna be fine, mate, you’ll see.”
“You really think so?”
“Guarantee it.”
“I second that,” Ringo spoke up. “You just gotta do it, yeah?”
“Yeah.” John pushed his hair back, clasping his hands over his head. “Yeah. God, I’m a mess, aren’t I?”
“A bit,” George allowed. “But like we said, you’ll be fine.”
“How am I supposed to do it, though? The proposing?”
“How’d you ask her out the first time?” Ringo asked. “You could just repeat that.”
“I took her to Paris.” Best spent money of his life.
“Ah, well, maybe that could work again, I guess. We have 10 days off in December. Ninth to the 19th.”
John nodded slowly. “Yeah, it could. She’s talked about wanting to go back a few times before.” He nodded again. “We’re going up to Liverpool this weekend, just for a few days to see her dad after he and Angie got married. I could ask him then. That’d be the proper thing to do, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah. Make Jim less likely to castrate you, too.” George nudged him. “And then the week after that, you take her to Paris. See, you’ve got this.”
John forced a smile. “Hah, well, we’ll see. Thanks, you two.”
“Happy to. We love you both, yeah?” Ringo grinned. “Just want to see you both happy.”
“Me, too,” John murmured as he clapped them both on the back for a parting gesture. “See you in the morning.”
Now he just had to put the plan into action, so to speak.
It was only once they arrived in Liverpool that weekend and John had finished his conversation with Jim — which had been both eloquent and successful, praise the Lord — that John remembered he would be needing to acquire a ring. Couldn’t well propose without one, at any rate. And, as far as John saw, there were three three steps to that.
The first was having enough money to buy a ring, which was hardly an issue. The next two were more complicated: find one Paul would like, and do so discreetly. He had an idea of what jewellery she wore, which tended to fall into the tasteful and simple category. He’d also bought her a few items before, namely the engraved bracelet and a pair of small golden hoop earrings. He’d selected them with care, of course, and she liked them, but a ring was something slightly different. Especially when he hoped she’d wear it every day for the rest of her life, even if they couldn’t afford to have it on her left ring finger.
That was another problem, though, because the natural place for the ring to go would have been her right ring finger, but there was already a ring there: her mum’s engagement ring. Mary had given it to her before she died, when Paul was still a girl, and she wore it almost religiously, with the exception of when she slept, and then it was only a few feet away on her nightstand. First thing in the morning, too, it was right back on.
It was a silver thing, with a prong and gallery rail rising just slightly to enclose a small, dusky-tinted diamond. Simple and tasteful, and actually a good indication of where to start looking for an engagement ring specifically for her. Gold was the most common ring for weddings, he knew, and diamonds were the most traditional. The question was if Paul would want an engagement and a wedding ring — he knew some women just had one, including Mimi. Paul might find two excessive, or maybe she’d expect two because John could afford it? A dilemma, to be sure.
The only thing for it, it seemed, was to talk to an expert. One that wouldn’t go running their mouth. So, the night he and Paul arrived back in London, John slipped round to Brian’s flat with a few urgent rings of the bell.
Brian met him at the door, clad in his dressing gown and a puzzled expression. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes, well, sort of.” John glanced about. “Can I come in?”
Brian stepped back to usher him inside. “What is it that is only sort of alright? Please don’t tell me anything happened in Liverpool. You were only there for the weekend.”
“Well, again, sort of, but not like you think. I think, anyway.” John cleared his throat. “I talked to Jim, Jim McCartney, when I was there. It’s about Paul, you see—”
“Good heavens, John, you don’t mean you’ve gotten her pregnant?”
That threw him for one. “What?” John stepped back, almost into the door. “No! No, not that she’s told me. And I mean, we use protection—”
“I don't need to know anymore than that. And thank the Lord.” Brian looked like he could faint from relief. “Not to be insensitive, but that’s the last thing I need right now.”
“Ah, well, this might not be that helpful for you either, then.” John toed the plush entry rug.
“Anything is better than explaining a Beatle baby when the public doesn’t even know you’re a couple.” Brian ran a hand through his hair. “Now, what is this unhelpful thing?”
“Well, when I talked to Jim, I asked him for Paul’s hand in marriage.” John gauged Brian’s reaction, found it not a disaster, and continued. “He said yes, oddly enough, and the next thing for it is to ask Paul, too.”
Brian squinted. “To marry you?”
“Yes, that’s the idea.”
“I see.” Brian rubbed his chin. “What’s brought this on now, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Don’t you believe in true love, Eppy?” John tried, but Brian’s unamused expression caught the humour short. “Because I love her more than anything in the world and she’s beginning to think I don’t.”
“And you have decided marriage is the best solution?”
“That and I’d really like it to be her and me for the rest of our lives. Husband and wife. Sickeningly domestic, I know.”
“Well, I’m hardly someone in a position to judge that.” Brian dropped his hands to the silk pockets of his robe. “I suppose a congratulations are in order, assuming she says yes.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” John muttered.
“Truly, I’m very happy for you both,” Brian assured. “Regardless of the media debacle that might come from it if anything gets outs.”
“About that.” John cleared his throat. “I have a favour to ask of you.”
“I was beginning to wonder why you were really here.” Brian looked slightly suspicious.
“It’s the ring," John continued, ignoring Brian's peeved expression. "I don’t have one yet and I’ve only got an idea of what to get her. Don’t really want anyone knowing I’m on the hunt, either. Including her.”
“Ah.” Brian nodded, understanding quickly. “I’m sure I can find someone with knowledge and discretion. Come round my office on Tuesday and I’ll have something arranged.”
John’s shoulders lightened a bit at that. “Thanks, Brian. Tuesday, you said?”
“Yes, probably the early morning. I’ll phone you tomorrow night to let you know.”
“I’ll be at Paul’s. That’s where I am now, anyway.”
“You best answer the phone, then. I won’t have any good excuses to tell her if she picks up and wants to know why I need to talk to you specifically.”
“I will,” John vowed. “Thank you, Brian.”
“You’re welcome. And goodnight.”
The reminder that it was indeed night, close to 10PM, was slightly jarring, and John hurried out the door with intent. He’d told Paul he was going out for drinks with George — who had willingly agreed to say he was doing that as well, if Paul asked — but it had only been meant to be an hour. The trip of getting to and from Brian’s was almost that much on its own, absent the conversation.
He made it back in reasonable time, though, and Paul greeted him at the door to her flat with a smile and cup of tea.
“Have a good time?” She asked. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, a bit messy, and she had on a pair of flannel pyjama trousers and one of his old t-shirts. He could have proposed to her there and then if he’d had a ring.
“Yeah, good to see George. He asked after your dad. Told him he was fine. Still his delightful self.”
“At least you’re honest.” Paul took a slow sip from her cup and padded over to the sofa. “Come join me?”
“Can’t say no to that.” John slipped down next to her, his own tea cup in one hand, and carefully pulled her into his lap with his other. “You have a good weekend seeing your dad? I haven’t had a chance to ask, being so busy talking to everyone up there.”
Paul set her head on his chest. “It was alright,” she decided slowly. “I’m still not used to him being married again, I guess. Feels weird, seeing him with someone who’s not Mum. But I suppose that’s me being selfish, isn’t it?”
“Not necessarily,” John said. He let his hand brush over her hair. “Your reservations aren’t about him being happy in general. They’re just about how much you still love your mum. And you want him to still love her, too. It’s hard to see someone new in that position.”
“I guess so.” Paul curled a bit closer. “Do you think he does still love her?”
“I know he does. There was a reason he waited so long to get married, yeah? He was waiting for the perfect one for him, and that was her. He’ll never stop loving her, as his wife or the mother of you and Mike.”
Paul nodded, a sniff in her breath. “If, if we ever have kids and if I died—”
“Whoa, what? Babe, what’s this about?” John sat up, setting his tea on the table and catching Paul’s chin. “You’re not dying on me. And I’m not on you, either.”
“But if I did, I’d want you to be happy, to be able to move on—”
“Paul, baby, you don’t need to worry about that,” John insisted. “You’re not going to die.”
“We didn’t think mum was going to, either.”
John sighed. He cupped Paul’s cheek, stroking it with his thumb. Her eyes were turning a bit glassy. “Medicine is a lot better now, even just eight years later. And you’re still young, yeah? We’re gonna be alright. You’re gonna be alright.”
“You promise?"
“I promise. You’re not going to die. It’s not allowed.”
“Alright,” Paul said, beginning to smile a bit. “Alright.”
“There’s my girl.” John brought his other hand to her face, framed it gently, and kissed her forehead. “Now, you showered?”
“Yeah,” she murmured. “Didn’t wash my hair, though.”
“Do you want to?”
She shook her head. “Not tonight.”
“Sounds like bedtime to me, then!” Without much warning, he dropped his hands, scooped his arms under her, and pulled her up against him. “No bad dreams allowed, either.”
“John!” She practically shrieked, clinging to his neck in surprise. “God, I hate it when you do that! Scares the life out of me!”
“Past experience has shown that you may actually love it, though,” John whispered in her ear. He stepped carefully around the coffee table and toward the bedroom. “Maybe how affectionate you get when we're in bed…” John could feel her face heat up against his as he walked through the doorway. To his surprise, though, she didn’t respond in kind.
“Not tonight, John,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
John stopped at the bed. “Hey, you don’t need to apologise. Never need to be about anything like this.” He set her down on the edge of the mattress, crouching to take her hands in his. An undeniable swoop of gloom lay on her brow, despite the touch of affection, and John couldn’t help wondering if it was due to the same thing that George and Ringo had warned him of: she was beginning to think he didn’t love her. “Everything alright, though?”
“Yeah. Just tired.” She pursed her lips in a forced smile. “Long weekend.”
“At least we have those ten days off before Christmas, yeah?”
Her face lightened at the reminder. “I almost forgot about that. Should be nice.”
“Mm. Gonna sleep ‘til noon every day, me.”
“You do that already,” Paul laughed, a small noise that was nonetheless more relaxed than before. She leaned forward to place a kiss on his temple. “Best get to bed now if we want any hopes of you waking up tomorrow, too.”
“Right you are, love.” John squeezed her hands. “Just gonna brush my teeth. Get some kisses in that way.”
“You know me so well,” Paul laughed again. She returned the squeeze, then withdrew her hands. Immediately her left hand was gently removing the ring from her right. She twisted it off, cajoling it over her knuckle, and then deposited it on her nightstand. “See you when you’re out, if I'm not asleep.”
“Don't wait up for me, love. You need your rest.” John kissed her forehead, stood up, and slipped into the bathroom.
When he returned a few minutes later, cleaned and washed, Paul was curled under the blankets, face a bit sombre in the early throes of sleep. No longer available for kisses, then, but John found he didn’t mind. If all went well in a week or so, they’d be in Paris, engaged and content and Paul assured of his love. That was the best thing he could wish for. The only thing, really. Now he just had to make it happen.