Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bit of a come down, thought Paul McCartney, once Guinness World Record's "most successful songwriter of all time," and now a complete unknown. It wasn't supposed to be like this, he was vaguely certain. There had to be some path back to his own reality. If this was a very bad dream, or a very bad trip, it would have to end eventually. Till then he was making the best of it: working at a pizza joint (the only job he'd been able to get, without qualifications or legal status or any proof that he currently actually existed aside from just being here). It left him time to try to track down the people he'd known, before he got send into this weird kaleidoscope reality where everything was upside down and backwards. No, it wasn't really. It was just that he didn't exist. He didn't, and the Beatles didn't.

So far, he hadn't been able to discover if his band mates and friends still existed in this strange world or not. It was taking time to track down, being stuck in the United States, with no green card no less, and no actual identification on him when he woke up here, and precious little to work with, monetary-wise. He'd been quite frightened at first, of course. Not existing, not mattering to anyone, all of his work disappearing and being quite poor all over again were, naturally, something anyone would fear, especially if he was previously a musician known around the world.

There may have been a few nights of curling into a ball and breathing raggedly, consumed by the horrors, sweating, trembling, and breathing hard, heart pounding in a way that didn't let the rest of him catch up. Still. Paul was nothing if not resilient. He'd gotten the first job he could, slept rough until he had the money to get a crappy motel room, renting by the week, and started making long distance phone calls whenever he could afford them, trying to track down someone—anyone—who would know him.

It hadn't gone well. So far he'd found a few old friends from Liverpool, all of which had ended up hanging up on him, some after being quite angry with his supposed prank, pretending to know them when they'd never heard of him before in their lives. Rather awful, that. So far he hadn't been able to find Ringo, George, or John. He couldn't find any hint of Linda, either. Had they disappeared as well? Or was it simply that their lives had gone different directions in this dream, directions that left little trail for him to trace. He ought to go to a private eye, get some information there. It was frustratingly difficult to conduct his own investigation from across the ocean, without sufficient funds. Nor was he entirely certain his judgment was unclouded; after being yelled at by Ivan, he'd stood for a long time with the phone beeping in his hands, staring down at it, shaking. He didn't know how long it had been, but the light had changed by the time he came back to himself.

One didn't simply disappear from one's own life. It had to be a trip—a very, very bad trip indeed. It must be that. Still. He was still in it, and it had to be navigated. It had to be withstood. Stiff upper lip and all that.

Well, thought Paul, it's certainly been a while since I was able to go to a charity shop in peace, without being spotted, mobbed, or asked for autographs! I must think of it as a little vacation. Yes, that's it.

He smiled at the teller, carrying his "new" vests and the trousers that nearly fit properly. Up to the till, ready to pay. They were called something else in America—till, charity shop—but he couldn't quite remember what just now—and the teller was certainly quite bored. Funny to have to count out coins again, because that was what he had. Funny! It was really just like a dream, a vacation, a dream—

He hummed quietly to himself as he left with his purchases, scratching at his beard, feeling an odd twitching starting with his left eye. He rubbed at it, reminding himself to regulate his breathing. Best get home, then. Best rest a bit, before his evening shift slinging dough and sauce and cheese.

Lying on his awful bed, in the sad little room, he stared at the ceiling, listening to the music that was drifting through the thin walls. Someone had a radio, and it may as well have been in his room, as clearly as you could hear it.

He recognized some current songs, but overall, the sounds were subtly, frighteningly different. It just didn't sound like the world he'd come from. It was like the whole ethos of music had changed, subtly and not subtly. Perhaps he didn't listen to the radio enough in America? It felt insular, old fashioned, a bit intellectually sparing. There were a few catchy tunes he hadn't heard before, but overall, it was bit of a disgrace.

Could the Beatles have meant that much to American music? It was certainly possible that they'd jolted the country into waking up a bit about music, as well as bringing more variety into the country from British bands. He knew they'd opened doors for other bands to be welcome here, for American youth to get a taste for different sorts of music, to open up to new ideas and sounds. But wouldn't someone else have done it, if they hadn't?

It had seemed like such a big deal at the time; later, it had felt inevitable, the invincible steamroller that was Beatlemania—the unstoppable machine that would grind everything to dust before it, including the Beatles themselves. Wouldn't it have been someone else, if it hadn't been them?

And where were George and Ringo? And, of course, John...

The trouble (and he kept trying not to think about this trouble, because it was really the worst thing of all), was that John had actually been killed in the real world. Paul had been trying to hold onto hope that that wasn't the case here. Whatever the case, dream, trip, parallel world, it wouldn't be quite so bad if he could get another chance to see John. If he was OK here. Even if it wasn't the same; even if John didn't know him. (He didn't think he could bear that, but he'd have to, wouldn't he? If he wanted to see him again.) It would be a chance to say goodbye, of a sort, no matter what. If he could find him. If he existed here.

#

It was a familiar, nasally voice, and it brought Paul up short.

"Yeah, I'll take two slices to go."

John? JOHN? He moved in a daze from the back of the pizza place towards the front, to see his teenage co-worker sullenly ringing up an order, while on the opposite side of the counter, leaning in a particularly boneless manner (because he never would stand straight if he didn't have to), John Lennon. Or some version of him.

His glasses were different. His hair was different. He wasn't as thin. He didn't have that tight, hard, hungry look. His fashion looked—less curated, a little more comfortable. He still looked cool as hell, of course. The jeans, the black t-shirt, the stonewashed pale denim jacket—they didn't define his look; he defined them.

He was giving the teen a sarcastic look.

"And if I get them to stay and don't pay the take-out fee, what's to stop me from walking out with them?"

"Uh? You don't get a box," said the teen. "That's it."

"Suppose I take dozens of napkins instead of the box. Is there an extra fee for napkins?"

"No?" The kid sounded confused.

John was being a bit of an arsehole, trying to get a reaction. Not on, Johnny, thought Paul, but at the same time, he couldn't care that much, because John was alive, and impossibly, he was here.

Paul stepped forward, trying to swallow his grin. "Actually, we'll have to hunt you down and take a couple of swings with the pizza paddle," he said, waggling his eyebrows at John. He couldn't keep from smiling with his whole face, his whole being.

Johnny was here; Paul wasn't alone. John was alive!

John's brows rose and he straightened up from where he'd been leaning on the counter. "You're new," said John curtly.

"And you're not? Do you ask these questions every time, then?" He was still smiling at Johnny, hoping for a hint, either way. Did John recognize him, or were they strangers now? It would be awful to run after him, begging to be remembered, only for John to think he was a weirdo, a freak.

"What the hell, you're British?"

Paul gave a curt nod, his smile disappearing. "Liverpool, mate." He let his accent show more strongly—or maybe he couldn't help it, with the distress he was suddenly feeling. John was staring at him, brow furrowed into a frown.

"What the hell! I'm from Liverpool! No chance in hell."

"What happened to your accent, then," said Paul, realizing he needed to fall into the push-pull pattern of their old relationship if he was to avoid being grilled.

He scrambled mentally for a backstory he could feed John. If John didn't know Paul, there was no way Paul could tell him the truth. For one thing, it sounded crazy. For another, if John was as back-and-forth about Paul as he used to be, he'd be friendly one day, and ready to turn him over to the police the next for not having any documentation.

John straightened up further, sounding offended. "Been in this country awhile, haven't I? Where are you off to?" he called after Paul, as Paul dipped back into the back.

"Two slices, here or to go, right?" called back Paul. His face was burning, his heart was pounding. It felt like panic rising in him. What to do, what to do? John was here, but he was different, he didn't know Paul, and Paul very much didn't want to break down, laughing or weeping, or screaming. It was so...

He had to think. Hands shaking, he shoved the pizza paddle under the waiting pizza pie and drew it out of the hot oven. He hadn't been working here all that long, but he'd gotten pretty good at it. The welcome heat of the oven, on a cold day. The pleasure of turning out a perfectly round and perfectly baked pizza, ready to be ruthlessly cut in half and in half again and again until the desired number of slices were created. Then into the origami-like folded box, out the door, into hands of customers.

It always smelled good here, and he loved the feel of the soft dough under his hands, kneading it and slamming it into circles, slapping out pizza after pizza. It was mindless, delightful. He knew he should hate it; he should feel humiliated to be reduced to this. But there was something wonderful about creating food from his own hands, at being counted on for something so profound and so simple.

Here, he was looked at like just another person, or even not at all, instead of having people staring at him eagerly, waiting to trample over his personal space, hanging on his words as if he had the secret answer to life—and then trampling over him again by interrupting, by asking questions they wouldn't dare say to a strange on the street, by demanding something or everything. Everyone had thought they knew him, he belonged to them. Just like in the Beatle days, if they could tear off a piece of him, it was fair game...only the pieces were emotion these days, instead of physical. Reveal your grief. Defend yourself. Why are you here, and not John? Why, indeed.

He thought desperately of how different this was—the simple pizza tasks, the lonely motel, the long-distance calls—trying to be here, to settle himself, to feel like himself, as much as he could. He was nobody here. He could just do his work, and figure it out.

But all the while in the back of his mind, the chant was going on, like a wail, "John, John, John." Some part of him felt like that was always there, always. It might never end. Sometimes, he didn't hear it, but it was always there, like an underground stream, underlying everything all the time.

"Uh, you can't go back there," said the teen awkwardly.

Paul turned quickly, pasting a smile on his face, to meet John. Because of course. John had always been bad about following the rules. He'd shoved his hands in his pockets and was slouching there, looking at Paul, frowning a little like he was a puzzle to figure out.

A stranger. And a puzzle.

"What's the matter, luv?" said Paul lightly. "Can't wait for your slices?" Keep it cool, keep your cool. A playful, light tone would be less likely to scare Johnny away.

Johnny. His Johnny.

Back. Alive.

Oh god, what was he doing in America? Was he still with Yoko? No, why would he be? She didn't want to marry someone who wasn't famous...

Wait, was he famous? Paul couldn't just ask him something like that. He had to be really, really careful what he did ask, and if he asked anything. Because John could walk right out of here and never be seen again. He could disappear from Paul's life all over again.

Then again, would he be arguing about the stupid extra charge for takeout (rather than eat in) if he was famous and rolling in money? Would he be following Paul into the back if he was ready to walk away, and not at least a bit curious?

"Who the hell are you?" said John. "A guy from Liverpool who cooks pizza? What the hell?"

"Necessities must, dear," said Paul in a rather camp voice. "One can learn quickly when one puts one's mind to it." Oh god, stop talking! He glanced back at Johnny. "I can grab you a box, it's fine."

"I get plenty of box on me own, thanks," said John, giving him a toothy, sarcastic grin.

"Oh, aye," said Paul with a fake-grave nod. "Right proper ladies man, you are, I'm sure mate."

"Well I am," said John. "When I can be bothered. I'm a famous writer, you know. Quite busy up here." He tapped at his skull, and gave Paul a quick, subtle wink.

Oh god, he'd be insufferable. If he was actually a famous writer. Paul tried to school his features. He couldn't ask. If John was actually famous in this universe, he'd be angry Paul didn't know his work. And Paul didn't think he could bluff his way through it, not convincingly. Not with Johnny.

"Well, I'm a soon-to-be-famous pizza maker," said Paul lightly, and immediately decided that was the dumbest thing in the world that he could've said.

"Hey, you can't be back there." The teen sounded bored. "Paul, tell him."

"Uh," said Paul. He was staring at Johnny, and trying to stop.

"I'll eat in," said John suddenly, as if coming to a decision. He gave Paul a nod, and then pushed his sunglasses back down. "Come talk to me."

Paul somehow found himself meeting his teen co-worker's eyes, as if sending a silent question. They were the only two here right now. Would Ollie rat him out? He kid shrugged as if to say, who gives a shit?

"Sure, one sec," said Paul, and shoved the next pizzas in and shut the oven door. He set the timer quickly and turned to cut the pizzas he'd just gotten out, still conscious of John's eyes on him, watching, puzzled.

Paul's heart was pounding, and he willed his hands not to shake. Tried to look competent, move fast. He got the two largest pieces onto a plate and handed it to Johnny, looking up briefly to meet his eyes. That steady, puzzled gaze, half hidden behind his specs.

Oh god.

John jerked his head, indicating Paul should follow. He was being confident and commanding. Would that last? Or was he as back and forth as he used to be—one moment cool and in charge, the next vulnerable, shy, rather fragile...and so, so easy to hurt.

John didn't look back, didn't wait to see if he was followed. He sauntered—definitely in his cool, confident energy, then—and disappeared out front to find a seat in one of the dingy booths. Paul slid the rest of the pizza where it belonged, under the heat lamp, grabbed the timer, and ran after John. Not his John, but John, anyway.

He grabbed one of the glass shakers as he passed the napkin station, and offered it to John. "Parmesan?"

"Thanks mate." John took it casually and added a few shakes, not as though he was actually interested. It was just something to do. Paul hesitated, then slid into the booth opposite him. It creaked. Had anyone washed these seats in recent memory? Best not to think on it.

Johnny was looking particularly cool today, and part of Paul knew it was an act, but at the same time, he was still pretty nervous. This John—this cool, stranger-John—didn't know him, had no reason to stick around or hear him out. Or ever talk to him again. If he couldn't impress this version of John, he would likely walk out, and maybe never back in. A second John lost, and then what?

Paul stared at him, not willing to be the first one to talk. Every potential word he could say suddenly felt like a minefield. If he slipped up, said John's name before he was introduced...

John picked at his pizza, ripping off a bit of crust and nibbling it. "So how'd you end up in a place like this?"

Paul weighed his words. But he had to say something; he had to. "Got in a spot of trouble, first work I could get." He shrugged. "Better than sleeping rough."

John's brows rose, perhaps at the blatant honesty. "Sounds like a bit of a tale, that."

"Oh, sure," said Paul, feeling breathless. "See, I'm—I'm a musician in my—my other life and I had a job offer, you see, only it turns out it's not quiiiite legal to be here like that, and the job wasn't exactly a real job, and then me instrument got stolen, so what the hell? I'm stuck for now."

"No family to bail you out?" asked Lennon, sensibly.

He grimaced quietly at the thought. Talking to his brother on the telephone—and not being known—had been hell. "Nah, just me, mate."

John leaned forward, pushing his glasses up, abandoning the pretence of interest in his food. "What do you play?"

"Eat," Paul pointed at the pizza. "I'm not going to be blamed if you let it get cold and then decide it's bad pizza."

"Now, would I?" John's grin was lazy, and wicked. "What do you play?"

"Whatever instrument I can get me hands on," said Paul in a burst of honesty. "Had a guitar with me, but I'll play piano, I'll play horn, I'll play anything. Just get me hands on an instrument I'll play it." He realised as he said it how desperate he'd been to actually play music—not just hum it, or sing to himself in the shower, or listen to other people's random radios playing here and there, half static, half out of hearing distance. He'd been so busy focusing on finding out a way to reach someone he knew, or get home, or simply survive until he woke up, that he'd neglected the thing that had always helped him through everything else: the ability to play music. He needed an instrument. He needed to get his hands on something to make music with.

"What do you play, then?" said John, looking at him like he was a puzzle bow-tied and ready to be unwrapped. "I mean, musically. Jazz?"

"Pop, rock, skiffle, ballads. I'll play whatever. Not a dab hand at jazz, me. Not quite got the right style. I need some words."

"So you sing," said Johnny.

"Eat," said Paul, pointing again to the food. He knew he had no reason to be this bossy, but some part of him always got afraid when John stopped eating. It was usually a bad sign.

Sometimes, when he hadn't been around John a lot, he'd only been able to tell from the boniness, the weight loss, sometimes fast or extreme. It was frightening how fragile Johnny could look, when he lost too much weight. He didn't seem to be in that sort of state now, here, like this. But the knee-jerk reaction for Paul was always to be frightened if John ordered food and then didn't want it.

Or just played with it. Or pretended to eat and didn't actually eat.

John rolled his eyes, but tore off a strip of pizza, held it high overhead, and lowered it into his mouth, nibbling it with his mobile mouth, rather exaggeratedly. Paul watched, trying not to smile. John cast him a rather naughty look, and Paul smiled serenely back, refusing to be baited. He folded his hands on the booth's table and waited, rather primly. Under the table, one of his knees kept jiggling up and down.

The timer, beside him, ticked down the moments before he had to spring up and dash back to get the pizzas out of the oven. So brief, his time with Johnny. Moments, seconds, to be greedily grasped.

Paul cleared his throat. "Yes, I sing."

"So get yourself into a nightclub until you can get the money to go home."

Easy, easy. Easy for you to say, he wanted to say. Instead, he kept his cool. "I'd be quite glad to have a job making music if I could get an in. And in instrument."

John shrugged carelessly. "They'll have a piano at a bar or nightclub. Next town over there's a couple of spots. I go all the time. I know one of the owners—he's an asshole, but who isn't these days? I'll give him a ring and see if he needs someone."

"You haven't heard me yet," pointed out Paul, leaning forward, eagerly, looking at Johnny to see if there was a spark of recognition after all—some sacred mystical part of their old bond that told him Paul could be trusted, Paul could play.

"You're from Liverpool, mate," said John. "I reckon I'd put an average Liverpool lad up against any American when it comes to musical ability. Hell, I can sing meself. No proper training, like, but I can sing as well as half the bastards on the radio and I'm barely trying."

Well, that's because you're John Lennon, thought Paul and tried to keep his expression neutral and not laugh at John, thinking everyone from Liverpool could sing, just because he could. It was true there was a great love of music in their hometown. It was the entertainment, the things families did together, to celebrate, to while away the time. Sing, dance, play music, find joy in the midst of hardscrabble existence. But that didn't make it nothing.

The timer rang. John twitched. Paul sprang up.

"Gotta get that, sorry, sorry!" He dashed. Pizza out. Cut. Slid into boxes. Boxes closed. Shoved onto the counter to be taken for delivery.

The teen slouched towards the counter with a sigh. "Two more from the phone," he said. "Pickup. Pepperoni."

"Got it mate," said Paul. He slammed out the dough, slapping, spreading, coating. Into the oven. Back to the booth—hurry, hurry—set the timer that he'd forgotten to take with him—and slide back into the booth facing John, who sat watching him with only slightly concealed amusement in a lazy grin.

"Work ethic, eh?" he said.

Paul shrugged. He didn't know what to do with his hands. They felt too soft and well-manicured suddenly, folded together. He slid them back under the booth.

Johnny had eaten almost a full slice. Good lad.

"Tell me about yourself, then." Paul kept his tone light. "Famous writer, you said? Would I have heard of you?"

John raised a hand, waggled it back and forth, and made an expression with his mobile features that said maybe, maybe not. "John Lennon. Intrepid reporter." He allowed a slightly sarcastic curl to his lips, as he leaned forward, sliding a cigarette between them.

They weren't technically in the smoking section—that was two booths down, near the back. And there was no chance in hell Paul was going to mention that.

He didn't have a lighter on him. Couldn't lean forward and offer, couldn't be cool. He sat back while Johnny dug into his own pockets, flicked and flicked, and finally puffed and puffed. "Want one?" John held out the cigarette packet, half full.

Paul did, desperately, but he'd been trying to quit—before he left, it was a choice. Now it was more a matter of economics. Had to save his pennies for those phone calls. Cautiously, he found himself shaking his head—and reaching out to take one anyway.

John leaned in. Flick. Flick. They drew apart, and Paul puffed.

He closed his eyes at the relief of the hit, dragging it in like a starving man. He leaned his head back and blew smoke towards the ceiling, feeling the relief, the head-swirling comfort of it. Johnny. Cigarettes. All so close. He forced himself to open his eyes and look back at John, who was watching him with a kind of naked, vulpine intensity, not even pretending to be casual about it.

"What's your name?" asked John, his voice low, soft—at the same moment that Paul spoke in a rush, "Tell me about being a famous reporter."

John's fingers, reaching across the table, light at his wrist, playing with Paul's sleeve. "Periods of intense activity mixed with mind-numbing boredom. And lots of typewriters and late phone calls and cigarettes and fights with editors who change article's titles and cut me best bits." His half grin was his most disreputable one, and he wasn't breaking eye contact. It was the full Lennon charm, aimed at Paul. It was a ruthless kind of charm. "Your name?"

Paul swallowed. "Paul. McCartney."

He waited. Some part of him still hoped to be recognized. But there was nothing, of course. John simply nodded, taking it in.

The timer rang again and this time they both jumped.

"Shit," said Paul under his breath, springing up. He put the smouldering cigarette down carefully and made a dash for the back room. Had to wash his hands really quickly. You couldn't handle pizza if you'd been smoking, and—and he had to hurry. Had to hurry, before Johnny left!

Not that he seemed in any hurry, at that.

Paul's hands were shaking by the time he had the pizzas out of the oven and into their boxes. Slid onto the counter, ready for pickup. The phone was ringing. Don't fuck this up, don't fuck this up, he told himself.

He dashed to the phone, answered. "Take home or delivery?" he asked in a crisp voice. "Uh huh. Okay. Yes." He hung up and ran back to the dough station.

"Look at you, busy bee," said John, and Paul jumped again, because he was quite close, leaning down and peering at Paul past the heat lamp, grinning lazily. Hands stuffed in his pockets, sunnies back covering his eyes, he looked cool again—cool, relaxed, and ridiculously Johnny. Even though he was different. Everything was different. But it was still him, still Johnny. On some level, the same. Maybe.

"Right," said Paul breathlessly. "I'll just be a moment."

"Work ethic like that, anybody'd be glad to have you," said John, observing as Paul desperately tried to finish his task so he could stop and pay attention to John, and get back to keeping up his side of the banter, conversation, or simply staring at one another as they smoked.

As always, John required all of one's attention.

"Go on," said John, jerking his head towards Paul. "Sing me something, then. Before I go and use up any credit I have by recommending you for a musical job."

"Er," said Paul, "what do you want to hear?" He looked up nervously at John from under his eyelashes, trying to seem relaxed, and almost certainly failing.

John's grin spread lazy, wicked. "Always On My Mind."

And Paul said, because he couldn't resist showing off, "Elvis or Willie?"

John's grin was one of quick delight. "Go on, then. Let's hear your Willie." He leaned, and he listened, as Paul began to sing, and quickly got into it. He rather loved a good sad song like this.

"Little things I should've said and done, I just never found the time." Paul let himself lean into the sentimentality of the song, the rich notes, the American accent—his very best Willie impersonation.

"Lovely," said John Lennon, giving him a little bit of half-ironic applause at the end. "You're all right, you are. Lovely Liverpool lad. Why don't I know you?"

"Not sure," said Paul, keeping his gaze down. Focus on the pizza. The mindless, soft-doughed task. Focus. "Why don't you?"

"Pipes like that, you ought to be on the radio. Do you play a lot of gigs back home, at least? I hope?" He was still leaning on the counter, and far too nosy for Paul's good.

"Eh, I've been on the road around Europe quite a bit. Here and there. Still looking for me big break," he improvised wildly.

"Well, you're all right, you are. I hope you get it."

Paul looked at him and didn't say anything. He didn't have words, to say all that couldn't be said between them, that didn't exist for John, but only for him. It was such a lonely feeling. But John was right here. He needed to be here with this John, the only one he had access to. Everything from the past, the John he'd known, the life he'd lived, was gone. He had only this, the dream John, the dream life, the world as it had become without him, without his Beatle career.

He'd lost it all. But John was here. And however long this was for, it was something, and he had to live in it.

John was looking at him, like he was a puzzle to be unwound.

"Tell me more about you," said Paul quietly. "Do you live here, or are you doing a story?"

John winked and touched a finger to the side of his nose. "I'll never tell."

Paul raised his hands and rolled his eyes. "Ah, I see how it is! You get to know all about me, and I don't get to ask questions! Shall I ask how high when you say leap, as well?"

He didn't mean to sound bitter. He hadn't realised he felt it. John's smile was sly, there and gone. "Now, now. I'm helping you, aren't I? I'll get you that job, see if I don't. You've got to push harder, you have. Don't settle for pizza when you've got a voice like that. Life kicks you once and what, you're planning to stay down?" He shook his head slowly. "That's not on."

"I suppose I've let things get to me," admitted Paul. It was true that he hadn't exactly tried to find a job in music, for however long he was here, instead of falling quietly into the first thing he found. He knew why, if he thought about it. It was such a different experience, to be ignored, normal, left to do a mindlessly calming sort of work while he tried to sort out his thoughts, sort out the options. Even the low pay had been a comfort, in a way.

The very limitations kept him from losing his mind in this current reality; he couldn't fly home and face his brother in person, look fruitlessly for people who would see him as a stranger. He'd had the distance of the phone, the stretched-out, painful approach of saving enough for long distance calls, breaking his heart a little over each one, slowly admitting he was lost, and nobody here knew him at all. If he'd had more resources, he could've done it all at once, and broken his heart a little faster. Maybe too quickly for him to adjust.

Here, he'd adjusted. It was painful and difficult, but he'd adjusted. He was living through it, such as it was. And he found some peace in the quiet, constricted life, like a vacation. There were certainly bad things about it, and he wouldn't have chosen it. But there was something like relief at having only himself to worry about. No piece of him was owned by another.

He was not a public access person, to have bits ripped off him, to owe anyone anything, to have to hide or be public property. He was simply another person, no different from anyone else. Nobody wanted anything from him, any part of him, any piece of him. Nobody felt like they had the right to him. It had been so, so long since he'd just belonged to himself, and not had to navigate the fickle and dangerous waters of public ownership.

He wasn't for sale; he wasn't on display; he wasn't letting people down by just being himself instead of the charming rock star that owed everyone the same answers to the same questions over and over, pleasant, no matter how awful they were to him. Genial, no matter how raw the repeated questions about painful topics left him. There for the taking—carve him up and serve him on a platter; the public wants to know! Everyone wants their piece of flesh, and they'll find a way to get it no matter what.

The bell over the door chimed as someone breezed in. John and Paul turned to stare at the customers, come to pick up their pizza. Right. His job. Paul cleared his throat and went to the till, to handle the transaction. Johnny would have to wait—as would these ruminations.

#

Johnny hung around for a little while, asked him casually when he got off work, and left with a promise to be in touch with his "contacts" and see if he could get Paul somewhere to perform.

Paul wanted to ask for his number but he couldn't find a smooth way to do it and he was still halfway frightened of scaring John off by being too intense about this. He'd already scolded him into eating, teased him, and spent an inordinate amount of energy paying attention to him when Paul was supposed to be working. It must seem like a lot from someone who didn't know him.

When Paul locked up—he'd had to close tonight as well as run the place by himself for a lot of the day, what fun—he was surprised to see a car idling in the drive, and Johnny behind the wheel. What the hell? His grin was too wide, too surprised. He tried to swallow it as he took long steps over and leaned down. "Johnny? What's up?"

"I'll give you a lift. Wanted to talk and you were on my way," said John.

Ha, thought Paul, his spirits lifting after the long and emotionally fraught day. I'm not the one who's eager this time. Okay! It was a relief to think John was invested or interested or something, enough to come back and wait for him, idling, impatient, probably drumming his fingers on the wheel and chain-smoking.

Paul went around the front, trying not to look like he was halfway ready to dance from happiness, hips swinging fluidly, and slid into the passenger seat. "Right!" he said with a breathless smile. "I'm at the motel—the shitty little place by the gas station. So you can drop me off there."

"Sure," said John distractedly.

He'd pulled out of the drive and was merging into the evening traffic. Thankfully he was wearing his glasses; Paul didn't trust any version of John to drive quite safely. But he couldn't exactly offer to drive instead, could he? Not when they'd barely met.

John said, "I talked to my friend at the bar—well, not a friend exactly, but you know—and he could use someone for live music in the afternoon and evening. They've got a band sometimes for the night crowd but not all the time. Pay's shitty but it's got to be better than slinging dough, plus you'd get tips. There's a piano."

He didn't glance at Paul, which was good for road safety, but not always a good sign when it came to John. It meant he was nervous, or upset, or something else. He was hard to read when he wouldn't look at you.

"Sounds promising," said Paul cautiously. What's the catch? he wanted to know.

"Well, yeah, but he'd want you to start right away. Tomorrow. And audition, if you can call it that, tonight." He finally glanced at Paul, and Paul saw the nervousness on his face. "Did I overstep?"

"No," said Paul quietly, pressing his hands together between his knees, trying to calm himself. It was fast; it was happening fast. But it was Johnny, and music. He'd have to quit his job, if he got this one instead—but then he'd be making music again, and that was not nothing. If it didn't work out, though... He thought of something. "How far is it? I don't have a car and the buses are crap here." This was a bit of a one-horse town and the transportation options were low to nonexistent if you didn't have your own vehicle. John had said it was the next town, so it could be a bit of an issue. Maybe he should move, though.

"I'll take you over tonight," said John. "And back, of course. If you end up liking it you can move somewhere closer, maybe better." He drummed his hands on the wheel. "Till you get everything sorted out of course, and have enough money to go home."

Paul sighed. "Right. Home." Where was that, anymore? Did he have a home? He didn't seem to have anything else. His old life and everyone who'd known and loved him had forgotten him, never met him, were gone—something. And now he had Johnny back, after a fashion, and what did it all mean? What did any of it mean? "The music's the thing," he said quietly. "I can't figure the rest of it out right now."

"No, of course," said John, sounding relieved. He stopped tapping the wheel and began to hum.

Paul wasn't quite conscious of when he began to sing along, except that at some point he had, and John gave him a shocked, pleased little look, as if Paul had surprised him fresh all over again.

Paul smiled back as they finished the little ditty together. He was used to the way their voices could blend so perfectly, but even so it gave him a little thrill. It had been too long. John's voice wasn't as polished as he remembered it—but it was still so intimate and warm.

He smiled at John, enjoying the feeling of musical connection, of being perfectly in tune. It felt like a semi spiritual experience when they sang together sometimes. Other times, it had felt earthy, more raw—almost better than sex.

"Who are you," said John, giving him an awed look, his voice very soft.

Paul looked away, feeling his face flush. He drummed his fingers nervously on the door handle, making a fast, nervous little rhythm to keep the tune of his life.

Coming on too strong, Paulie. Dial it back!

#

He was conscious, all the way through the audition—the small talk, the smiles, the handshake, and finally sitting down to play at the old honky-tonk piano. It was a seedy little bar that smelled like cigarettes and old beer, but there was something delicious about that. He'd always enjoyed a small venue and it would be harder to find much smaller. But mostly he enjoyed showing off for John.

John was in his most hunched over posture with his glasses on, chin in hands, trying hard to look blasé and unconcerned. But Paul knew John; his full focus was on Paul, and he was impressed. It had been a long time since John had been visibly impressed by Paul's music. Paul enjoyed the attention, preened a bit.

It was easy enough to run through an improvised set, singing along when the numbers weren't purely instrumental, making time to banter a little and ask for requests, and doing it all with the flourish of an entertainer. He'd grown up in a family where playing for people like this was just a fun weekend's entertainment. He'd lived the life of a performer since he was a teenager; it was all pretty easy when it came down to it. But delightful, too.

There was the spice of John watching that made it so. Not his John—but the closest he was going to get. Surprising how easy the feelings of pleasure in his company, affection, wariness, and protectiveness merged all too easily in his feelings for this near-stranger's person. Because he was still John—a version of John, sarcastic, obnoxious, sweet, pushy, surreal John—but one with very different life experiences. One who took his own singing voice for granted and didn't think anything of it, who'd leaned into his love of writing instead. Who hadn't taken all the blows of extreme fame, or lived through the intense crucible of those formative years with the boys and the band.

In some ways, he was a complete mystery, uncharted territory, years stretching back and back without Paul, secret hidden worlds he'd inhabited that Paul had no window into, no idea about. But he was still John. His expressions—his reactions—Paul could read him so well, and he knew it was an unfair advantage, but it was necessary, too. Paul had no other resources, not really. Just that he knew John, and had to figure out how to get him to stay in Paul's life, for as long as he was here. Get to know him, again, and fresh, all over again. And be near him, for as long as they had.

Because he knew, now, there was always going to be a time limit. There was always going to be an ending, wasn't there?

He got the job offer, obviously. Shook hands then and there, smiled and said all the right things, and then grabbed his jacket and headed out with John Lennon, to be driven home. Maybe he would get a radio and an instrument when he got his pay. Obviously, find somewhere closer to live—but also, there was really no need to save everything for long distance calls now, was there? He had John. That had to be enough.

He had a little more time with Johnny.

Just a little longer.

"Quite the performance, Mr. McCartney," said John as they headed out, Paul keeping pace with him, staying close—maybe closer than casual acquaintances should. Hard to remember that he wasn't supposed to know John better than he knew himself sometimes. The face that he'd seen more often than he'd seen his own, even counting mirrors and album covers. It was hard not to fall back into old patterns.

They reached the parking meter and—

"Motherfucker," said John, with loud disgust. "You fucking cunt."

Paul veered away from him, flinching, heart pounding. John wouldn't turn on him so suddenly—not like this, not now—but he'd thought that before, hadn't he? Before John ripped him to shreds in the press, took gleeful delight in telling him he wanted a divorce, shoved Yoko in his face and blamed him for minding, called him up in the middle of the night, half off his head in a drunken rage, blaming Paul for things that couldn't possibly be his fault.

John gave him a quick surprised look and blinked. Then he looked at the car again, and the anger was back on his face. He snatched a ticket off the windshield. "Fucking greedy assholes. Should've been plenty of time on the meter!"

"I must've ran long," said Paul, trying not to sound unsteady, shaken.

John gave him another perplexed glance. "It's all right. I'll deal with it later." He went around to the driver's side and looked at Paul over the top of the low-slung car. "Get in, then."

Paul had the frightened, unnerving vision of John, with his terrible eyesight, driving angry and too fast in the dark, careening out of control, into a ditch, another car, a tree in the darkness. He stared back at John, mutinously silent, heart pounding too hard. He didn't want to be stuck in a fast moving vehicle with an angry John Lennon. It was too much, too soon for that. This one's temper might be even worse—even scarier.

John sighed and went around the car towards him. Paul didn't let himself flinch. "Come on, mate, I wasn't yelling at you." John took hold of Paul's arm, but not roughly. "Come on, mate." His tone was cajoling.

Paul wanted to be comforted, wanted to lean against him, say it was all right, he hadn't thought John was angry at him. But the small frightened part of him that was never over any of it was rearing its little head, screaming high and shrill like a lemming. He was in a strange world, in a strange country, in the dark, with an angry John Lennon.

"You're shaking, you are," said John in a slightly scolding voice, making his tone gentler, closer to teasing. "Come on, then. I'm not that scary am I? Is it nerves? Coming down from the high of performance? We can go to an all-nighter, I'll buy you a meal. Come on, mate. Get in the car."

Paul let himself be coaxed, ashamed to be caught trembling.

John cast him curious, puzzled looks as he drove—thankfully, slowly.

"Eyes on the road," said Paul defensively, gripping the side of the car. If he had to, he could fling the door open and throw himself out, roll and sustain a few injuries. But it wasn't going to be like that. It wasn't. John wasn't like that. He wasn't...

"I don't understand you," said John. "You were a natural, brilliant. Should be the face known to millions. Yet here you are shaking like a leaf."

"A man of contradictions, I am," said Paul, without quite managing to make it sound funny.

Paul got himself under control—mostly—by the time John had found a spot at a tiny diner that had the lights on and a neon OP_N sign buzzing bleakly.

They sat across from one another, John studying him while Paul tried not to meet his gaze. He felt awkward, too exposed and on display here in the weirdly lit diner. It was disorienting, strange. He'd gotten a different job. He was here, with John. He was still trying to calm down.

"You're in trouble, aren't you?" said John, very quietly.

Paul stared at him helplessly, opened his mouth, then closed it. Perhaps that was the trick: be mysterious, a wounded stranger with a sad past. It might buy him some grace when he acted oddly. He shrugged, trying to look a bit shifty and mysterious. Maybe Johnny would think he was on the run from the mob or something romantic like that. Maybe that would make him more interesting and keep Johnny curious.

"What can I get you?"

He startled a little, and then turned on his smile for the waitress and ordered a sandwich and soup.

John ordered coffee—it was too late for coffee—and smoked a cigarette and ate some crackers.

"If I knew you weren't going to eat, I wouldn't have ordered," said Paul disapprovingly.

John shrugged, as if it was all the same to him. He was crumpling crackers, eating crumbs, tapping his ashes into the ashtray, spilling sugar and dabbing it up ineffectively with his fingertips—generally making more of a mess than you would think possible with just crackers and coffee.

"You think you'll be all right, playing music like that, everyone watching you and all that?" asked John, seriously, keeping his voice low.

Paul spread his hands. "I like music. I'll do fine."

John was still looking at him like he was a puzzle to be solved. "Well," he said cautiously, "I'm not pushing, mind. It's just a thought. But I live near here. You could move in for now, save up some of your money. Not much of a drive from here, or you can walk or take a bus." He pushed his glasses up nervously. "It's just a studio, but the couch is comfortable. As good as a motel, any road."

Paul stared at him. "Um. Sure?" he said, not acceptance, but a question. "You barely know me?"

"Us Liverpool lads must stick together," said John, trying out a cocky grin. It wasn't quite convincing; he seemed uncharacteristically nervous that Paul was going to say no.

Paul's mind raced, but he couldn't think of a reason to say no. Wasn't sure he wanted to, either. It would solve some logistics, and keep him close to Lennon, at least for a bit. At the same time, some part of him shrank away from the idea. It had been so long since they'd shared space, always something or someone between them. And John had been so angry with him for so long, sharing space again would be—

Fine. It would be fine. Everything would be fine.

He took a deep, shaky breath. "Well, that's a very kind offer," he said politely. Too politely.

John interrupted, low and urgent. "Look mate, it's all right. Perfectly safe, you know? I'll look after you, you'll be safe. Quite private, give you your space—it's all right, you know. It's all right."

Paul raised his hands, appeasing. "Okay. Yes. Grateful, okay? I'm just a bit nervy. I'm touched. Honestly."

He met John's gaze helplessly, knowing there was no way to explain. Even as some part of him flashed back to those awful calls, the accusations, the rages. A drunken John, smashing things, smashing the things between them that had been so precious once—what would it be like to wake up to that? To have it aimed at him in person, maybe with some blows as well?

Not that John had ever taken a swing at him. But. He might've, if they'd been near each other during those rages—if John had been that far gone, to blame him for everything wrong in his life, to see patterns of evil in Paul that had no basis in reality.

And then, later, he would be fine, and they'd reconnect, and scratch out some semblance of a friendship again. But it was so hard. So, so, so hard. And then—just when things were settling and getting better, safer, warmer, kinder, like what they'd had before, John had fucking died. Murdered, taken away too soon.

And it was just a big raw wound, wasn't it? Couldn't ever be fixed, not really. And here he was in a psychedelic dream world, with John back, but not quite, never quite. Was this John, the warm man he remembered, the one he'd been getting back, or was he the dangerous hateful one who wanted Paul to suffer, who would do anything to destroy his career and break his stupid soppy heart?

"It'll be all right, you'll see," said John, leaning forward, uncharacteristically earnest. "Come over tonight. You'll feel better if you sleep. Drive you back to get your things tomorrow, won't I? And if you change your mind, it's all right. But you'll feel better if you sleep."

"I'll have to quit me job," said Paul, running a hand back anxiously through his hair.

"You can call in or just leave a note if you don't want to be shouted at."

Great, John had decided Paul was a fragile thing he needed to be very careful of. Probably not wrong, at that. Paul grimaced. "Right. Right, I'll deal with it tomorrow. Tomorrow." He let out his breath.

Johnny held out a cracker gingerly, between two fingers, offering it to Paul. Paul smiled and shook his head. "Got me sandwich, haven't I?" He took another bite, finally beginning to feel his appetite return. It was a nice change from half stale pizza, anyway.

#

John kept up a charming patter or cheerful, low-pressure conversation on the drive to his flat. He led Paul upstairs, pounding up the stairs athletically, almost at a run, and let him in, with a flourished half bow. "Be it ever so 'umble," he said, putting on a silly voice. "There's the couch, and I'll get you a robe. Get some blankets and that."

He bustled about, being quite the good, cosy host. Before he knew it, Paul was seated on the couch, feeling a bit dazed, with blankets stacked up beside him, and a cheerful John putting a mug of cocoa in his hands.

"There now, you can't say better than that, can you?"

"No, ta," said Paul, keeping his gaze down.

"I'll let you sleep then," said Johnny. "It's all right mate. It's all good." He touched his arm, very lightly, an encouraging almost-tap, and left him to it.

Paul stared down into the mug, tears swimming in his eyes. Maybe Johnny could still read him—maybe a little too well.

#

The gentle sounds of a radio playing in the distance, crockery knocking together, and humming combined to slowly awaken Paul. He blinked, bleary, and rolled over. His arm was asleep. He had to pee. The place he was sleeping felt unfamiliar, lumpy. He blinked at the ceiling, at a window that let light in past a thin curtain and a showy fern.

Where was he?

John. That was John, humming.

The humming got closer, as John's footsteps scuffed towards him. Paul tensed up, and then forced himself to relax. It was just John. It was only John. He turned a little more to stare up at the approaching man, his face blank with exhaustion.

"You were having a bad dream or something, mate," said John calmly. "Cuppa tea?"

"Was I?" He sat up cautiously and moved his hands to accept the offering. "What did I do?"

John shrugged, avoiding his gaze. "Just made some noise. Debated waking you, but didn't want to give you a fright. Anyway, you settled after bit."

Paul wondered how bad it had been. How long John had stood there, watching him sleep. Probably whimpering and maybe even crying. He didn't know. Couldn't tell.

What would his brain have picked to torment him with this time? Something about John? Or something more bizarre, a blue hole in his head sucking everything in, till it was all gone? Maybe the dream about being torn apart by fans—or worse, watching George, Ringo, and John take the brunt of it, and Paul powerless to stop it. Or that awful one where he picked up a guitar and couldn't remember how to play, and everything he did sounded wrong, or made no sound at all...

"So should I have?" said John, sitting down beside him on the couch, still warm from Paul's body. He slung an arm along the back, casually holding his own mug of tea. "Wake you, I mean?"

"Probably not." Paul took a cautious sip. It was made to John's preferences, not his, but it felt homely and warm to have tea with John like this. "It's not like I remember it anyway."

"Hmm," said John but nothing more. It didn't sound disapproving, more like a neutral sound to let Paul know he was listening.

"So what are your plans for today?" asked Paul.

"Got a bit of writing to do, then I'm your chauffer for the day. I'll ferry you about till you've got things sorted."

"That's very kind," said Paul quietly. He risked a glance at John. His Johnny. So different, and so much the same. He wasn't heroin-thin. Expression curious but relaxed. His eyes were clear, devoid of malice, devoid of the madness of paranoia and pain and substances. His hair was untidy, short, nearly clean. Long sideburns. He was either growing a beard or needed a shave.

He was lovely.

John had always been lovely to Paul, but he hadn't always been safe. Here he was being particularly gentle, and liked Paul being musical, didn't see it as a competition.

John reached over and gave him a gentle, rather affectionate shove on the shoulder. "Take a picture, it'll last longer."

"Might do at that," said Paul. He got up and stretched. It shouldn't be hard to get to the loo. He'd knew he'd used it last night. He glanced down and saw John looking up at him with open curiosity—taking in his stretch, his bare chest as the robe fell completely open. Paul yawned. "Pardon," he said, and moved past John—dodging his languidly outstretched legs.

"How d'you like your eggs?" called John after him.

#

Paul flinched a little as his boss banged down the phone. "Right, that's me told," he said, taking a deep, shaky breath. It wasn't really that bad being yelled at. It was more what it represented—letting people down. Being a disappointment.

He was definitely done with that job. Wouldn't be welcome past those doors again. For a moment, he missed the warmth and the smell of the dough, and coming home permeated with the scents of pizza. And then he turned and smiled at John reassuringly. He'd only spoken because John was hovering, waiting to see how it would go. He wanted to sound suave and okay. John seemed to have gotten it into his mind that Paul was a bit weak, and he wanted to be seen as bearing up under the strain.

"All right?" asked John, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

"All right," said Paul. He gave Johnny his nicest smile, and was surprised at the effect, the worry lifting immediately from his brow, concern gone, and his smile back as big and open as if he'd never known a frown. It reminded Paul of their early touring days, when John was so delighted by everything—life, fame, Paul.

How strange, thought Paul, feeling oddly distant. The electricity is just the same.

"All right?" said John, whose smile had disappeared so quickly to be replaced by a look of concern that Paul had to wonder what his own face was doing without his permission.

"Right," said Paul vaguely. "I think I've got to sit down." He looked around vaguely, found the couch, and moved towards it, barely noticing John's hand on his arm. Head in hands, he sat, breathing deep, leaning forward, feeling vaguely sick. It was too, too surreal. And it certainly didn't feel like a trip or a dream anymore. Maybe it never had done.

No, this was John—not his John, but John all the same, so close, so similar, so present.

He was shaking. Why was he shaking?

You were dead. And now you're not.

John was next to him then, giving him a comforting pat, putting an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. "You're all right. You're okay," said John in his rich warm voice, so close.

Why was he breaking down like this? He never broke down. He was always solid as a rock. It wasn't—this wasn't supposed to happen, not to him. Of all the subtle and terrifying ways to break down, doing it like this, in front of the John Lennon he didn't really know, but who was so much like the one he had—

But John was a comforting presence, and the worst of it eventually passed, and John got up and made tea, and they sat together on the couch, drinking it, not talking. He was afraid John would ask, afraid that he would tell him everything. But John didn't speak, and they just sat together like that, close, quiet, for a long time.

Eventually John went away to work on his writing—Paul could hear the sound of keys being pounded—and Paul lay down for a little rest, to try to collect himself before the evening to come. He dosed, half asleep for what felt like countless endless hours, but was probably only a short time before he actually drifted off. It reminded him of music, in a way, the sound of the keys, but there was no tune to it. Just John, in the distance, making art with words instead of lyrics.

He dreamed. It was John. Of course. It was always John, wasn't it? Not like he had other important people in his life that should be occupying his mind, no, it always had to be John. This was John at one of his, well, lows, Paul supposed, looking frail and wild-eyed, paranoid, suspicious. Angry with Paul, who once again didn't know what he was supposed to have done this time, or really, any of the others. It was always something though, wasn't it? It was always something, and John liked to make out it was always his fault, and then he'd be himself again for a while and they could talk again, or hang out, until it happened again. And again.

And here was John in his dream, glaring at him, eyes so filled with rage, hurt, and something else, something he never could explain properly, as if Paul had let him down. It was so unfair, so much like living it all over again.

He woke up with a little gasp, eyes flying open, to see John standing—lounging, really—by the doorway, mug in hand, watching Paul with a curiously distant expression. Paul turned quickly on his side, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn't want to see or be seen just then.

"It's only a couple of hours before you have to go on stage," pointed out John. "Want to drive over and get your stuff from the motel or do you want to wait and see how you feel about it tomorrow?"

He was paid up till the end of the week, but he'd need a change of clothes. Grimacing at the idea of moving, doing anything, he forced himself to sit up. "No, you're right. Best to do it now."

"Good, I need a break from writing. Stuck in me own head. It helps to get out, drive around, walk, something. Or talk to someone." He looked at Paul, as if to imply sometimes he should consider talking to people too, but he left it at that, a hint and not pushing.

Paul gave him a weak smile and pretended that he hadn't heard the hint. There was no way he wanted to bear his soul—or rather, even more of it—to this newsman John. He didn't think he could've even if it was his John. Any version of John at all felt too dangerous to talk to that seriously, that deeply. There were so many things about what had gone wrong between the two of them that he didn't know how to understand, still to this day, much less ask about.

He pulled himself together and they headed off. It felt like a bit of a drive back to the little one-horse town and he found himself wondering what John had been doing there anyway, stopping in for pizza. Maybe research, for whatever he'd been writing? Maybe he'd just been out and about trying to clear his mind.

"It won't take long," said Paul when John pulled up at the motel.

"Want me to come in and help?" John pushed his glasses down and looked at Paul over him. It had always felt so intimate when he did that; Paul suppressed something like a shudder, but warmer.

"No, I'll—won't take a mo."

John stayed in the car, idling, and didn't comment when Paul returned shortly, carrying two bags. He'd changed clothes quickly first, then threw everything he had together—not much—and went out and slung it in the back seat. He was grateful when John didn't comment. It felt rather pathetic to have so little to his name. He'd half expected John to make a remark or raise an eyebrow, but he didn't. Hm, tactful.

"Let's stop somewhere and eat," suggested John. "What are you hungry for?"

Paul couldn't think of anything he was hungry for. "Dunno. I'm not that bothered."

Then ended up in a Chinese restaurant. At first it felt awkward, and then suddenly it didn't. They ended up talking animatedly about music—their old favourites, the things they'd grown up with, which felt like a safer time period than current music, as Paul didn't know which songs still existed and which had disappeared from the world along with the Beatles.

Leaning forward, chatting animatedly, John had a sparkle in his eyes, and seemed so very alive. They stole food off each other's plates, each tasting a bit of everything. It was somehow brand new and just like the old days. Paul managed to drop in a hint a couple of times, very subtly he thought, that it might be nice to play a few old songs together and maybe sing.

"If you had a guitar, I mean," he added. He hadn't seen one, but it was impossible to imagine John Lennon without a guitar somewhere in his vicinity.

"Dunno, never learned to play properly, did I? Just a few bits here and there. Used to be in a band, but it all fell apart."

"When was that?" Paul looked down at his plate, scraping at the last bits of rice self-consciously.

"When I was a teenager. Used to play fetes and such. We weren't very good, band kind of fell apart after bit. All full of teenage angst and trying to look like teddy boys." He laughed, sort of. "I enjoyed it a hell of a lot, though, singing me heart out, screaming at the world. Look at me, listen to me! You know. Had to take me glasses off so I would look cool—and so I couldn't see the crowd." He shrugged. "Then I got into writing. Bit of a scrappy young reporter for a few years, got a couple of good breaks—some real feature articles, you know—and after that I've been travelling off and on. Articles, books, interviews—all that intrepid hard-hitting newsman stuff. It's great fun most of the time. Haven't really been back to Liverpool, to be honest. It's where I grew up, it's home in every real sense—but it made me want to tear my skin off, you know? Sometimes home is just the place you're trying to escape from."

"Right," said Paul faintly.

"'Course I still ring me mum and auntie every so often, but that's it, really. I've barely kept in touch with anyone from Liverpool." He looked at Paul again, speculatively.

Wait, his mum was alive? And they were still in touch?

Paul tried desperately to keep his face blank as he processed this. Did the band breaking up affect his mother's survival in some way? Or was it something else, like Ringo and George being missing from the picture? Maybe many things were subtly different, and it wasn't all about Paul being there or not. He could only hope so.

How could the band have affected his mother's death, anyway? It was that drunken cop, the car accident, nothing to do with the band.

"You can't be much younger than me," said John, looking at Paul with those questions in his eyes again. "Never saw you around in the teen music scene, never heard of you."

Paul shrugged, self-consciously. "Didn't really get into it until later. Must've been after you left."

He hoped he was lying convincingly. It was hard to fool John—but this John didn't know all his tells from spending most of his life with Paul. They'd been so in tune once, so in harmony, in every sense. It had been the most special, and most heartbreaking, friendship of his life. And it had been, of course, both more and less than a friendship in the end—the things they'd shared when they were younger, before deciding to get married and settle down and be apart.

He'd wanted that to last. He'd wanted to stay close to John even if he ended up getting married. Hell, they'd done a lot of sexual things together even when John was married to Cyn. Perhaps not the best of men, but then they'd never claimed to be. It had been good, for a while. They'd practically lived together. Definitely at the peak of their physical, sexual, and emotional closeness, he'd thought it was the best thing in the world, him and John.

But it had all gone so wrong in the end, hadn't it?

Honestly since the breakup of the Beatles, since John had decided to hate Paul, it had kind of wrecked his ability to make friends, to ever fully trust anyone again. And here he was, pretending all of that history hadn't happened, and they could start fresh, could be—what, exactly? This probably wasn't even real. So should he grab it with both hands and hang on till it ended, or try to play it cool, not get his hopes up? Just dance around things and hold his breath, hope for a few crumbs?

"You're not a reporter," pointed out John. "But I seem to tell you everything anyway. I suppose that happens to you a lot? You've got that sort of face, I suppose. Me, I've got to work for it—gain people's trust, you know." He smiled, and shook back his hair rather daintily, scraping fingers through it. It was pretty short, compared to how it had been, didn't need much scraping.

Paul smiled back uneasily, unsure if they were talking about John gaining trust for interviews, or trying to get Paul to trust him. He wanted to ask more about the band, why it had collapsed, why John had given up and been so eager to go away and never go back. But somehow he didn't dare. John was still looking at him like that, like he was pleased with Paul but also rabidly curious. He'd probably end up getting a lot more out of Paul if he wasn't really careful. Might do some digging as well, and find out a certain Paul McCartney had never actually existed...

Could he prove a thing like that? Would he try? Surely not.

Part of Paul wanted to lay all his cards on the table, try to explain the strange situation he was in, and all the convoluted history between them that no longer existed. But it sounded insane, and he also didn't exactly relish pulling his beating heart out of his chest and exposing it, either. Even for John. Especially for John. Johnny, who'd broken him so many times already. With his paranoia, his rage, by breaking up with him, by leaving him—by dying. It was messy, messy. And this was a fresh start, wasn't it? He should just put those thoughts aside and take it. Be charming, or let himself be charmed. See what happened. Maybe they could be friends. Maybe they'd fuck. Who knows? There was no Yoko in the picture here, as far as he could tell, nobody living with John or demanding much if any of his time, and Paul was certainly at present unencumbered by commitments or responsibilities.

What would be the harm?

He could break his stupid heart again, that's what. Always over John Fucking Lennon.

#

The first day of his performance at the bar, Paul was nervous, but not excessively so. John said he'd stay for a bit and be sure it went okay, and then come back to drive him home after. He said it like that—drive him home. As if it was just taken for granted that he'd be staying with Johnny now, that his place was home, that he was home, maybe. It was easy enough to go along with that, and not to argue.

Paul saw him in the audience, sometimes having a drink, chatting with other patrons, eating pretzels, or scratching down something in his notepad. Probably working on his project—a book, Paul was pretty sure, from the piles of pages he'd seen stacked up beside the typewriter. Had he come to this town for some peace, a little out of the way spot to focus on his work, or was he here as part of whatever he was writing about? Too soon to tell, and too much to ask. He seemed fairly well known and accepted here, and he didn't get into any arguments or anything like that. Paul couldn't help noticing that he never actually left, though. He stayed all afternoon into the late evening until Paul's shift was done.

It had gone down well. He'd played and sang, not with the intensity of a concert, but the joyful connection of a small venue, getting the vibe of the crowd, bringing the mood up, connecting through a series of cheerful asides, winks, and accepting requests. He was charming. He worked hard. He had tips at the end of the night, and his arse was sore from sitting at the piano for so long. Needed to get on his feet; needed a guitar. Something. Surely the boss wouldn't object too much if he switched off between guitar and piano. Soon as he could afford a guitar.

"That went well, I thought," said John on the drive back. "You were chipper, charming. A real showman."

"Thanks," said Paul, twisting his hands together in his lap. It was deeply embarrassing to have John compliment him. He hadn't been like that, before. Even when you knew quite well he was pleased as punch, he wouldn't come right out and say so in those sorts of words. Now it seemed easy for him to give compliments. Maybe he thought Paul was a bit pathetic and needed built up. He glanced at John, trying to get a read on him.

"I probably will go home tomorrow," said John. "Just wanted to see your first night, you know."

But he didn't. He stayed all during Paul's arrangement the next day, and the next, and by the third day he wasn't even pretending he wouldn't be there all night. He brought a book, and his notepads, and sometimes he worked or read, but mostly he just hung out, enjoying the show. His eyes rarely seemed to leave the stage, watching Paul, just watching, clearly enjoying himself at least somewhat. He seemed so relaxed out there, not jealous at all. Sometimes, he called a request or made a little teasing banter with Paul from the audience—excellent stuff, as it got the audience in a better mood, bringing up the spirit of the place. A cheerful, lightly teasing, fun audience was the best sort, and the most generous as well.

#

Paul found, and haunted, the local pawnshop, making nice so they'd let him test the instruments. He wanted them all, but he settled on a battered old guitar, and bought it as soon as he had his first pay from the music gig. His trekked home in jaunty high spirits with the guitar on his back, hoping he could coax Johnny into a little sing-along. The only thing was he had to be careful to only play songs that existed in this world.

He'd been listening more closely to the radio, familiarizing himself, and taken time to look through sheet music when he could, as well as cassettes sections and thrift store vinyl, and music review sections of the papers—Johnny was subscribed to five papers and a bunch of magazines, slick professional ones where he had or wanted to get by-lines. He'd study them cover to cover to get a feel for their preferred styles, then dash off an article when he needed a break from his book so he didn't tear his hair out.

They'd settled into a nicely domestic routine. Paul had spaces for his things. He helped with the chores; sometimes he cooked. Johnny wouldn't accept any money towards their living arrangements, waved him off when he offered.

He'd let Paul read part of his book, the air of mystery not lasting when they were around each other so much. He chain-smoked and watched Paul closely as he read, and asked a couple of questions to see if it was clear what he was going for.

It was a dense but delightful, closely written book about American politics, and a particular divisive behind the scenes player Paul had never heard of before. John had liberal quotes sprinkled through the closely woven details, painting colourful pictures of a ruthless man bent on dominating the political scene of New York, and his various cronies and rivals. They were fascinating, horrible people. Paul thought it was great, and said so.

That had been—well, not exactly a bonding moment, but something good, anyway. Johnny had let him in, and been pleased with his reactions. It was something of a relief to realise that John was really good, he didn't have to fake his admiration. But of course he was. He'd set his mind to it, and he'd practiced a long time—just like when he was a musician. That single-minded intensity, the brain that went a hundred miles an hour when it was running. His nimble fingers and his way with words, a turn of phrase, a quick sketch of verbal scenery, of people, place, idea.

Paul hoped he could get John to sing with him again. He'd been missing it so.

John was at the kitchenette's table with his little portable typewriter, tapping away, cigarette between his lips, concentration on his brow.

Paul waited a moment, hopeful, but John didn't look up. Paul went past him into the living room and sat down on the couch—his bed.

He cleaned and tuned the guitar, cleared his throat self-consciously, and began to play. In the next room, the sounds of typing faltered, picked back up again, and then stopped. John scraped back his chair and appeared, leaning in the doorway, crossing his arms. Paul smiled up at him, hopeful, and began to sing, soft and low and sweet. Hoping. Hoping.

C'mon Johnny, sing with me.

John cleared his throat. "Where'd you get that, then?" He looked indulgent, pleased with Paul. Paul stopped singing but kept strumming. "Pawn shop. You still sing...?"

John shook his head, barely considering it. "You going to put that into your act, then? It's nice. Good sound."

"Hoping to." He transitioned into another song, trying again. A bid for music used to be met easily by John, their own private language for each other, a way to connect when they couldn't seem to communicate other ways.

This version of John just watched him, smiling, arms crossed, enjoying the show. "That's nice. You're really good." He stayed for three more songs, but he didn't sing once.

The typewriter started up again. Paul laid the guitar down and curled up on the couch, pulling a blanket up over his head, feeling obscurely miserable. When John came back later to ask what he wanted for lunch, Paul said he wasn't bothered, wasn't hungry. He didn't want to seem like he was pouting, but he couldn't summon the interest to pretend just then.

John—sweet, pushy John—sat down on the edge of the sofa, close enough that the heat of his body came through the blankets to Paul and put a hand on his arm, rubbing and jostling him. "I'll make you a cheese sandwich and that's all you'll get if you don't give me something to work with. Come on, then."

"I don't want anything."

"You'll be hungry later if you don't eat, luv."

Paul shrugged, hiding his face. John was babying him, and he wished he was immune, but he wasn't certain he was.

John was tugging at the blanket, trying to pull it away from his face, inexorable but not rough. "You're not hungry? Not even a bit?"

"No," said Paul stubbornly, squinting up at him.

John gave him a fond look and reached out to lightly tickle at his chest. "Now what are you annoyed about? You big baby."

"I'm not a baby," said Paul, sounding, he had to admit, a bit immature. He tried to pull the covers over his head again, trying not to visibly pout.

John kind of leaned over him, into him, moving his fingers to half wrestle, half tickle. It was both more invasive and more effective than fighting him for the covers.

Soon Paul was giggling and trying to fight him off, both of them being pretty gentle, if they'd been honest about it. It was a very light sort of wrestling, and it wasn't like he was trying that hard to get John off him...

At nearly the same moment, they both stilled, breathing a little fast, and looked at each other. John's gaze searched his face, his lips parting in a very sweet, incredibly alive expression. It was too much. Paul bit his lip and looked away. It was that or start weeping.

He was here—he was real again—but it wasn't him. It was this nice, gentle version of John who never hated Paul, because he hadn't known Paul long enough, because he hadn't been so fucked up by fame, and drugs, and their long history of collaboration, competition, and everything else—being everything to each other, being nothing to each other, though it never quite worked—

"It's okay, Paul, it's okay," said John very gently, moving back, brushing his hand lightly against Paul's arm as if to soothe him. "I won't. I'm not."

"You didn't—you won't sing with me," said Paul, because that was both the closest hurt and the one that was easiest to say aloud. And you died, another version of you died, and you hated me sometimes, and I never got you back, not the real you—but this you is real too. You're just so different. And you won't sing, you won't sing with me.

"Is that what's wrong? You can just ask me, baby." He leaned over Paul again—deliberately, taking his time—and leaned his weight on him in the closest thing he could give to a hug with Paul on the couch like this. "Baby," he said again, near Paul's ear, half teasing, half tender. Paul, clearly, could take it how he wanted—teasing, flirting, something halfway between.

Paul felt a stillness rising up in him. John was doing it: he was making a move. It was subtle enough that Paul could pretend to miss it, or give it the pass. Or he could turn in John's arms and kiss him right now.

Instead he did the secret third thing, twisted in John's arms and looked up at him with a stern expression. "I'm not kissing you if you won't even sing with me."

John drew back, his smile spreading slow and wide, and a little wicked. "Is that your criteria? Who you kiss is who sings with you?"

"Yes," said Paul, too stubborn to get into any real details. But this was important. It mattered.

"Then you're either the most chaste man alive or you're the world's biggest slut. Which is it? How many people do you sing with?" He touched the side of Paul's face, his fingers very gentle, touch sliding down, looking at Paul as if he was the most enchanting wonder in the world.

"Not telling," said Paul, and he squirmed up and away until he was sitting. He reached for the guitar deliberately. He began to strum, half-haphazardly at first, no particular tune in mind. "I take requests," he said, not looking at John. His fingers were shaking a little. They were going to do this, weren't they? He felt suddenly vulnerable and a little breathless, and far too close to tears. It wasn't being disloyal to his John, was it? To grab what happiness he could with this one?

But they had to sing. They had to. If that wasn't right—well, nothing else would be, either. It mattered too much to even look at John right now.

John settled down on the couch beside him. "Well," he said cautiously, "I've always liked Baby It's You."

In spite of himself, Paul felt his heart flutter, a little thrill at that particular request. He gave John a tentative smile and then began to play. John's gaze was riveted on his face, and didn't leave, not once. He let Paul begin the song, and then fell in with him, tentatively at first, but merging his voice with Paul's surprisingly easily.

John's voice didn't have the old polish—the almost arrogant skill of years of practice and proving himself—but his voice sounded damned good. He sounded like John Lennon.

Their voices were just right together. Paul found he was grinning, smiling so hard, feeling giddy and silly. It was so so good. He was singing with John, and in that moment—everything was truly okay.

#

Afterwards, in bed, while John was still kissing the trembling out of Paul's body as he slowly came down from his release, John said it again, almost worshipfully: "Who are you?"

"I'm just Paul. I'm just your Paul," he admitted, squeezing his eyes shut, and holding onto John. It was true, whether he liked it or not: he was always John's Paul. Even in the very worst of it, the very farthest apart they'd been. There was still some part of him that was always going to be John's.

"You're like catnip is what you are. Did somebody make you specifically for me? You're perfect."

Paul opened his eyes and got serious. "Don't go thinking that. I'm human. I'm as human as you are. I'm not going to be perfect and if you think that you'll get disappointed and then hate me." I'm not doing that again! "So you have to talk to me, okay? Don't just think I understand, because I probably don't."

"Look who's talking. You expected me to know you wanted me to sing. Well, how would I know that? You're the musical magician. I'm just a lowly reporter. Thought you wanted an audience, not a sing-along, didn't I?" He tickled lightly at the fuzz on Paul's arm, maybe trying to soften his words, make them sound gentler.

"Hmm. If it's not clear, I always want to sing with you," said Paul. He closed his eyes, and nodded. "But I'll say it. I'll say what I want."

This time, I'll say what I need. He made himself the silent promise. Whatever happened now, between them, he wouldn't let it fall apart because they couldn't talk about it. Even if it felt awkward or weird, they had to be able to talk, at least about the important things.

"Well, what do you want now?" said John, ever eager to please in bed.

"Anything," admitted Paul. "Don't care. Just—more. More of you." His cheeks felt hot from admitting it, but the reaction was worth it.

John was kissing him then, was all over him, laughing up against his mouth. "Baby, you got it."

#

Paul could hardly stop smiling as he sang his way through his set that night. He'd settled on a pretty routine set list, a few fast-paced crowd-pleasers mixed with slower songs, some instrumentation, some with singing, and always made time for a little banter and a few requests. He felt so buoyant and bouncy today, belting out the words, singing to his heart's content. He brought out the guitar with a flourish, and stood in front of the crowd for that part, to sing a couple of "oldies."

Johnny sat in the audience, near the front, watching him, proud. He was conscious of showing off for John—but that wasn't unusual. The cigarette butts piled up, and John's eyes stayed locked on his, mesmerized, watching.

Paul felt giddy and smiley.

Sleeping on the couch didn't last, after that. They tumbled into John's bed that night, and that was where Paul slept from then on. Sometimes, his nightmares disturbed John, which was the only bad part. But usually, the powerful, octopus-cuddler that was Johnny kept the nightmares fully at bay.

It was different. These weren't youthful fumblings; they both knew what they were doing, and what it meant. There was no half-hearted posturing about how this didn't make them queer, it didn't mean anything. It was just nice. Sweet, sensual, playful, fun. There was no element of competition, no feeling of needing to get one up on each other, to bargain or talk each other into different positions, acts. No pretending it was something it wasn't; they were sweet on each other, they were living together in domestic bliss, and they had sex at least once a day, often a lot more.

Paul had given up on trying to find his old friends, though he still wanted to know where George and Ringo were, and if they were okay. He continued to save up some money without any real goal of what to do with it, since he definitely didn't want to move back to Liverpool or away from John, ever.

He read John's book and John listened to him play music. He sang with Paul when Paul wanted him to. But Paul had to actually say what he wanted, which took some practice. He was used to their old patterns, of talking around things, or ignoring them. Maybe this way was better—it certainly took some work, though.

Weirdly, John Lennon didn't push for more information. He didn't ask questions about Paul's tragic past or whatever he thought was going on. He was just...nice. Sure, there was a streak of devilment about him, but most of the time he seemed calmly confident, even serene in his ability to trust himself. He smoked too much, drank a little, and didn't touch any drugs—not even weed, to Paul's surprise.

He was very good at gay sex—which made Paul wonder how much experience he must've had, how early he'd accepted that he could be interested in men, and how different life would've been if Paul's John hadn't had such a spotlight on him, so much risk about even considering that he might be on that side of the street.

He had to be curious about Paul's past, and he must have some resources if he decided to dig into Paul's history—not that he'd find anything. The man was an award winning investigative journalist. But Paul didn't have to field cagey questions, didn't see any evidence of John investigating. That by no means convinced him it wasn't happening, but he'd expected to be called on the carpet and asked to explain some things by this point. He'd expected John to be pushy and curious, not blasé, relaxed.

There were many things Paul missed about his old life. He couldn't really convince himself anymore that this was a dream, or a trip. It was something weirder than that. And he had no idea when or if it would end.

If it ended, he'd lose John all over again. So he had to make the most of this time with him, enjoy it as much as he could. Yes, they weren't the same—but they were good. It was a funny glimpse into what John's life might have been like if he hadn't lost his mother, if he hadn't grown up in a burgeoning, unstable, and very often toxic arena of music and fame. In many ways, the Beatles had been the guinea pigs, the first to deal with that level of media access and people wanting to get at them all the time. After a certain level of fame, they had been continually targeted, in one way or another, people wanting anything from sex or a good headline, to people who wanted to bleed them dry, tear them down, turn them against each other—or worse.

Sometimes, he still expected John to start ranting at him or blaming him or calling his music shit. But he didn't. He didn't seem threatened by Paul at all. Was that because they were so obviously in different fields, and there was no competition between them? Because Paul was basically living off him as a kept man? Of course, he could pay towards rent now, but John wouldn't take it. He liked paying. Maybe that kept him calmer about things, or maybe he'd just never developed the same specific insecurities that he had in the other world.

Paul was very much afraid he was in love with him.

He didn't know how he felt about that—shouldn't he only have one version of John he could love?—but it seemed to be true, and truer every day.

John didn't need him; he just liked him. It was strange to find that strange, perhaps. He was more used to a John Lennon that either desperately needed him or absolutely hated him. It had always been an extreme, with his John.

This measured, calm, wickedly witty man whose eyes gleamed as he looked up from the typewriter, and gave Paul that twisted little half smile, didn't go back and forth. He wanted Paul in his life, and so he made it happen.

He could've stopped driving Paul to work every evening and watching him play, but he didn't. Neither of them suggested it. Sometimes, Johnny brought his notebook and did some work, but he always seemed to be aware of Paul, whether he was actively listening and watching or just there, nearby. It meant so much to Paul, who had always wished John would come to at least one of his Wings concerts, and never gotten his wish. He'd wanted to perform for John, to look cool in front of him, to make him get a song stuck in his head and impress him.

It was all right. It was a good life, for however long it lasted.

There was another question, though. If he stayed. How much of his own music—or his and John's and the Beatles music—should he introduce to this world? Was the only morally correct thing to do nothing at all? Or would it be okay to get some of his, or their, music publicly produced?

The world seemed emptier musically to Paul, without the music they'd wrung out of their instruments and vocal chords. He missed their songs. But would it be the same, if he tried to get them published here? Without the mercurial rise of the Beatles—everything that had worked together just right, with Brian to give it the push, with their reckless young energy to push ahead through every obstacle—could he get his music out there? Would it mean leaving John? Trying to get some ID so he could be legitimate, maybe move back to Britain so he could see if he could work his way into a studio recording session? It had been so hard when they were unknown, when they were nobodies. It might be even harder now, a man in his 40s, out of nowhere, thinking he was God's gift to music. Was it worth it? To try to get noticed, get the songs out there?

And the other bit, too, the thing he kept hating to think about.

What was the one thing he'd end up doing that would make Johnny hate him all over again?

Because he still didn't know—not really—why John had turned on him that way, so publicly, so hatefully. Even when he was nice in person, he'd be back to saying shit in the papers about Paul when he'd least expected it. John had been so hot and cold, so mean sometimes, so angry and hurt and weird about things. Sometimes friendly, sometimes unapproachable. Stuck in his own head, competitive, unhappy, closed off. And then sometimes he'd be so warm and glad to see Paul, almost like old times.

Almost. Almost.

There were no old times here, only John and Paul creating something new. So if it didn't work, if John got mad at him, there'd be nothing left, would there? It would just be the end, that was all, a fresh hell, maybe with John trying to find a way to hurt Paul all over again.

How many times could he live through that and survive?

The odds weren't good.

#

One day without any fanfare, John dropped some papers in front of Paul, who looked up uneasily. "Don't ask where I got them." He gave Paul a jaunty wink and leaned languidly against his chair, smiling affectionately down at Paul. "I've got contacts."

Paul picked through—ID, drivers license, passport—they looked legitimate.

"Was that why you wanted to go to that photo booth last month?" he asked, looking up at John, trying not to look as cracked open and raw as he felt. Johnny was giving him a ticket back to England—if he wanted it. It was supremely thoughtful—and extremely scary at the same time. For a guy who found it difficult to talk about these things, it looked like he might have to. Their relationship. Where it was going, or wasn't.

"Well, you know," said John with studied casualness, "I'll be finished with me book soon, so I might want to head home, back to Jolly Old, you know." He shrugged. "And we can go together this way, no problem." He gave Paul a pat on the arm, and then leaned down to kiss him.

It was a nice kiss, slow, thoughtful—not the frenetic John who used to be itching for heroin, or the sleepy depressed John who couldn't seem to get out of bed. This was the John who'd learned how to take care of himself—and maybe even believed he was worth taking care of. And that Paul was, too.

"Thank you," said Paul, when they drew apart. His voice felt choked with tears, rough and raw with emotion. He didn't want to cry. But—John wanted to stay together. John wanted to make sure they could stay together.

John eased himself down onto Paul's lap and wound his arms around him. "I know," he said quietly, against Paul's skin. "I know, there's—it's hard for you to trust. Okay. I'm not asking questions. I'm not asking who he was. But I'm going to keep you safe. You're going to be safe with me. Wherever we go, or don't."

"Yeah," said Paul, holding onto him, laughing a little, crying a little, too. "Yeah, I think so."

"Now calm your tits," said John, and gave him the sweetest kiss imaginable. "I've got you."

the end