Work Text:
A thick blanket of steam hangs heavy in the air, clinging to the cracked, porcelain‑white tiles and misting the mottled glass of the small window. The room smells of cheap soap and damp wool. From the closed bedroom door just down the hall, Paul can hear George’s low, rumbling voice punctuated by Ringo’s deeper interjections and thoughtful “Mmm‑hmms.” Layered beneath them—threading through the thin walls of the Liverpool flat—come the unmistakable sounds of the babies: Heather’s delighted squeal, high and breathy, followed by Julian’s answering babble, a round, bubbling “Da‑da‑da!” that makes George laugh outright.
Their voices fill the flat with a loud, easy presence, carrying through the walls and into the steamy bathroom.
Paul, however, sits on the worn linoleum floor, his back pressed against the cold, iron claw of the tub’s foot. The dampness from the floor seeps through his trousers, a familiar chill in the unheated bathroom. He holds a violin, an instrument he’s only just started to learn, a recent gift from a friend. It rests awkwardly in his hands, a foreign, smooth‑bodied creature. The f‑holes, like thin, elegant eyes, seem to stare back at him. He tucks the chin rest under his jaw, the hard wood a new, uncomfortable pressure.
He holds the bow, a stick of tensioned horsehair, in a fumbling grip. With his left hand, he tentatively turns a tuning peg. The note that emerges is a high, thin wail, off‑key and abrasive. He winces, his brow furrowing in concentration. He turns the peg again, and the sound tightens, becoming a clearer, resonant A. He plucks it once with his finger, a soft, plucked ping that hangs in the air. He then draws the bow across the strings. The sound is scratchy and hesitant, a raw shriek of horsehair on gut. He is not trying to play a song, just exploring the instrument’s voice. He plays a stray note, a high E, the sound ringing out pure and clear briefly before dying away. He plays another, then another, a series of disjointed notes that have no rhythm or melody.
Despite his ministration, he still hears everything necessary: the murmur of George and Ringo, the flick of the cigarette lighter, Heather’s delighted thump‑thump‑thump against the floorboards as she crawls after something, and most of all, the joyful, splashing ruckus coming from inside the tub.
John hums off‑key, sending a new wave of bubbles spilling over the side. His toy torpedo, a miniature red plastic submarine, bobs in the foamy water.
“Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the—” SPLOOSH.
From the hall, Julian shrieks with laughter—George must’ve made a face at him again. Paul opens his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips. He watches as John resurfaces with a dramatic gasp, the water droplets drip down the side of the enamel tub, a tiny river carving a path through the soap suds.
“Torpedoed again, eh, darling?”
The air is warm and close, and the world outside—the screaming fans, the press, the endless tours—feels a million miles away. John catches Paul’s gaze and winks, and a quiet, private moment settles over the chaotic, loud room. He dips his head under the water, and when he resurfaces, his hair is plastered to his forehead, and he’s grinning. With a wicked grin, John shakes his head like a dog, sending droplets everywhere. Paul laughs and leans over the tub, brushing the wet fringe off John’s forehead before kissing him—quick, warm, familiar. John immediately hooks a slippery arm around Paul’s waist and tugs.
“Come on, Macca, in you get. Water’s lovely,” he says, voice thick with mischief.
“You’re daft,” Paul murmurs against his mouth, trying—and failing—to keep his balance as John tugs again. “I’ve only just changed these trousers.”
“That’s alright. I’ll peel ’em off you,” John says, grinning like a man who absolutely means it.
Paul snorts, kissing him once more, softer this time, letting the steam and the closeness settle around them like a blanket. A sudden thwack hits the bathroom door.
Both of them freeze.
Then comes Heather’s unmistakable delighted squeal, followed by the clatter of something plastic bouncing across the hallway.
Ringo’s voice follows immediately: “Heather, sweetheart, we don’t throw blocks at your dads’ door! George—grab her—she’s off again!”
George’s laugh booms, and Julian’s giggle rises right after, bright and bubbling, as if he finds the whole chase hysterical.
John drops his head back against the rim of the tub and laughs, helpless and fond. “That’s our little menace. She’s got an arm on her already. Nearly clocked me with a rattle this morning.”
Paul nudges his knee against John’s arm. “She gets that from you. I’ve seen your aim, Lennon.”
“And Jules gets his habit of wakin’ up the second I sit down,” John counters, poking Paul’s thigh. “Little sod waited till I’d poured tea, then started howlin’. Knew exactly what he was doin’.”
Paul’s smile softens, warm and full. “Well, that’s marriage for you, isn’t it? You get the tea, I get the screaming.”
John’s expression shifts—still amused, but threaded with something gentler. He reaches up, wet fingers brushing Paul’s cheek. “Long as it’s our lot doin’ the screamin’. Long as it’s us.”
Paul leans down again, kissing him slowly, unhurried, the kind of kiss that says yes, it’s us, it’s always us.
Another thump hits the door—lighter this time—followed by Julian’s delighted “Da!” and Ringo’s exasperated, “No, lad, we don’t knock on the bath door either—give your dads a minute!”
John and Paul break apart, laughing into each other’s shoulders.
“Minute’s all we ever get,” John says, but he sounds happy about it.
Paul squeezes his hand. “A minute’s enough.”