Work Text:
Paul had called, late at night. John had answered, he wasn’t going to get any sleep anyways. All he had said to John was “I’m coming over now,” And of course John had been taken aback, with Paul suddenly appearing in New York, but he agreed, of course. He let Paul in, like he always has.
When Paul knocked, John quickly made his way to the door, unlocking it. Without ceremony, Paul stepped into his home, taking off his jacket and hanging it on one of the hooks next to the door. “Is Yoko here?” he asked. John shook his head.
He didn’t ask why Paul was there, in New York, in his house. He didn’t ask what had happened, if he was okay. “Want a drink?” he offered. Paul accepted. John brought him whisky. He didn’t like whisky. Neither did Paul. They both drank of the brown liquid, grimacing at the sweet taste. Paul sat on the small sofa, legs crossed. John joined him, taking the spot furthest away from him. They sat in silence for a moment, sipping at their distasteful drinks. A car alarm went off outside, startling John from his thoughts. He looked to Paul, noticing he was already observing him. John set his glass on the coffee table, leaning away from his seat. “I liked your song.” he pauses, “The one about me,” John said passively (and possibly agressively), staring at the wall.
“Which one?” Paul responds, worrying the thin fabric of his sleeve between his fingers as he keeps his eyes harshly trained on John.
“The, uh,” John taps his fingers on the table, humming the tune of the song, like he hadn't listened to it obsessively, tediously analysing every word.
“Oh. Yes.” Paul says, following John’s example and setting his glass on the table.
“Suppose- suppose you’re getting out of the muzak phase. Though the vocals could be a bit, well, better,” John slips his finger around the rim of the glass sitting on the table.
“I quite liked the vocals. Soft, they were soft. Gentle. I think yours was rather a bit much, don’t you think?”
“Mine was accurate, is what it was.” John argued, removing his hand from his glass and brushing it through his hair.
“Ritchie told me you were about to go through with much more.” Paul said, almost conversationally, folding his hands across his lap. John turned to him then, eyes brushing over his face. It was still Paul, it was Paul sitting there in his living room, it was Paul who was drinking his whiskey, it was Paul with whom he was arguing. It was Paul, the boy from Liverpool, the boy he took to Paris, the man he worked with for all those years. But it wasn’t that Paul. The man in front of him was Paul, of course, but not his Paul. Not the Paul he wrote love songs with, not the Paul with whom he shared his hotel room, not the Paul who he saw that day in 1957. No, this was a new Paul, a Paul who wrote love songs about him, a Paul who only ever saw this John, not the old John.
“I was.” John confirmed.