Archive of Our Own

The glass-walled corner office on the third floor of the McLennon Production Company building usually smells like Paul’s expensive Earl Grey and whatever leftover pastry John abandons on the side table. This morning, the atmosphere is thick with a hesitant, heavy tension. Alanis stands just inside the doorway, clutching a leather folder tightly against her chest. At twenty-one, she possesses a fierce, raw talent that has convinced Paul to sign her off a single demo tape six months ago, but right now she looks unusually tense. Paul looks up from a stack of distribution reports, his glasses sliding down his nose. Seeing her hovering, he sets his pen down and offers a warm, welcoming smile.

"Alanis, luv! Come on in," Paul says, gesturing to the leather armchairs across from his massive oak desk. "What can I do for you today? Have those final mix tracks come back from the studio yet?"

She doesn't sit right away. Instead, she takes a slow step forward, her knuckles white against the leather folder. "Um... Mr. McCartney?" she begins softly, her voice missing its usual sharp bite. "Do you... do you have a few minutes? To talk?"

"Course I do," Paul says, easing back in his chair. "Take a seat. What's on your mind?"

Alanis sits on the edge of the armchair, keeping her back pin-straight. She swallows hard before looking him in the eye. "It’s... well, it’s not really a work thing. I mean, it’s about my personal life. But it’s going to affect work. And the label. And... you."

Paul’s eyebrows twitch upward, his casual posture shifting slightly into something more focused. He leans his elbows on the desk, crossing his hands. "Look, Alanis," Paul says, his broad Liverpool accent dropping into that gentle, grounding tone he uses when his young artists hit a wall. "If it’s something that’s troubling you, or something that’s going to impact your head space and your music, then it is label business. You don't have to beat around the bush with me. We take care of our own here. Whatever it is, just tell me, and we'll work it out."

Alanis takes a deep breath, taking comfort in his encouragement, though her jaw remains tight. She lowers the folder to her lap. "Okay," she says quietly. "I'm pregnant."

Paul’s expression immediately softens into genuine, protective relief. "Ah. Well, first off, congratulations, luv. If that's what you want, of course."

"It is," she says with a firm nod.

"Good." Paul smiles, keeping his posture relaxed and non-judgmental. "Now, off the record—just as someone who wants to make sure you're safe and taken care of—is this something we need to handle? Is the father someone... complicated? Someone on the staff, or..."

He leaves the question hanging, the unspoken worry clear in his eyes. Alanis swallows hard, her gaze darting to the rain-streaked window for a brief, heavy second before locking back onto his face. "It's John."

Paul blinks. The easy warmth on his face holds steady, though he tilts his head slightly. "John," Paul repeats carefully, his executive brain immediately scanning the current roster. "Right. You mean John Rzeznik? The Goo Goo Dolls lad? Because if he's giving you hassle about this, I can have Neil give his management a shout today—"

"No," she interrupts quietly, shaking her head. "Not Rzeznik."

"Buck, then?" Paul offers, a tiny frown forming as he thought of the R.E.M. guitarist. "John Buck? He's a lovely fella, but he's usually pretty quiet about—"

"No, Mr. McCartney," she whispers, leaning forward, her cheeks flushing with exasperation. "Not Buck."

Paul pauses. He reaches for his teacup, taking a slow, measured sip to give himself three seconds of pure operational logic. Two Johns on the label. Neither of them. Suddenly, a cold spike of panic hits the back of his neck, followed immediately by an overwhelming wave of absurd, industry-wide dread. "Alanis..." Paul lowers his teacup to the saucer with a rattle. His voice drops an octave, tight and strained. "Tell me you don't mean Elton."

She stares at him, looking genuinely baffled. "Elton?"

"Elton John!" Paul’s hands fly up in rare, unvarnished panic, his eyes wide. "Because Elton is married to Bernie! Bernie Taupin! They’ve been together for thirty years, Alanis! If you’ve gone and disrupted that household, the press is going to chew this entire label to absolute pieces, not to mention what David Furnish is going to say—"

"Paul, stop!" Alanis cuts in sharply, her face bright red. "It's not Elton! Why on earth would I be sleeping with Elton John?!"

Paul lets out a massive, lung-emptying sigh of relief, slumping back into his chair and pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose. "Thank God. Thank bloody God. You nearly gave me a coronary, luv. Okay." He wipes a hand over his mouth, looking back at her. "Then who are you talking about?"

Alanis looks at him like he's being deliberately dense. She takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. "Your husband," she states clearly. "John Lennon-McCartney."

The silence that hits the office is so sudden and absolute they can hear the rain tapping against the windowpanes. Paul stays completely still. The slight twitch in his jaw is the only indicator that his brain hasn't completely short-circuited.

"Alanis," Paul replies. His voice is no longer soft, nor is it panicky. It's dangerously, flatly quiet. "I’m going to give you exactly five seconds to tell me that’s a joke. A bad, incredibly stupid joke."

"It's not a joke," she retorts fiercely, her eyes unblinking. "I know he's your husband, Paul. I know it's terrible. But it happened, and he's the father."

Paul doen’t move. For three agonising seconds, the only sound in the office is the steady clack-clack of rain striking the glass behind him. His eyes, wide and unblinking, stay locked on Alanis. The warmth that usually defines Paul McCartney—the easy, effortless charm that can smooth over disastrous press conferences or settle hostile board meetings—evaporates completely, replaced by a cold, impenetrable calm.

"Right," Paul says softly. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't slam a fist on the desk. He just picks up his fountain pen, caps it with a deliberate click, and sets it back down in its brass holder. "Right."

Alanis shifts uncomfortably in her chair, clutching her leather folder like a shield. "Paul, I know this is—"

"I told you five seconds," Paul interrupts, his voice dropping into a register that makes the air in the room feel thin. He stands up slowly, smoothing the front of his vest with two flat palms. "You’ve used them."

"It's the truth!" she insists, her chin setting stubbornly. "I wouldn't lie about something like this. You think I wanted to come in here and tell my label boss that I’m having his husband's baby?"

Paul draws himself up to his full height behind the desk. His mind is a chaotic, roaring storm, but thirty years of public life have taught him how to keep the surface glassy smooth. John. The name echoed in his head like a struck bell. John, who had confessed five years into their marriage—tears streaming down his face, practically trembling with guilt—because he’d let a girl in Munich kiss him outside a hotel elevator. John, who couldn't keep a secret from Paul if his life depended on it. John, who spent his Tuesdays sitting in Brian’s conservatory drinking leaf tea and complaining about modern record production.

"Alanis," Paul says, resting his fingertips lightly on the edge of the mahogany desk. "I am going to ask you to leave my office now. You are going to go back to the studio, or go home, or go wherever it is you need to go to think very, very carefully about what you’ve just put on the table."

"Paul—"

"We are done talking about this today," he snaps, the executive steel finally cutting through. He walks around the side of the desk, opens the door, and stands beside it, waiting. "Neil is downstairs. If you need anything administrative, speak to him. But as far as this goes? Not another word."

Alanis looks at him for a long moment, frustrated and defiant, before standing up. She straightens her jacket, pulls her bag over her shoulder, and walks past him out into the corridor. The moment the heavy door clicks shut behind her, Paul leans his back against the wood and closes his eyes. His heart is hammering against his ribs. Part of him—the rational, corporate head of McLennon—wants to call legal immediately. But the rest of him, the part that belongs entirely to John Lennon-McCartney, refuses to let a corporate protocol handle this.

He doesn't believe her. He can't believe her. But the absolute certainty in her eyes has planted a single, poisonous splinter of doubt that he knows will fester until he looks John in the eye. Paul strides back to his desk, grabs his heavy wool overcoat off the brass coat rack, and snatches his car keys. He doesn't bother telling his secretary he was leaving. He doesn't wait for the elevator, opting instead to take the stairs two at a time, heading straight for the basement parking garage.

It's four-thirty on a damp Tuesday afternoon. John will be at Brian and Neil's house in St. John's Wood. He's always there on Tuesdays—listening to old 45s with Eppy while Brian tends to the garden or reads the trade papers in the parlor. It's their quiet sanctuary, the one place the outside world can't reach them.

Paul starts the engine of his Aston Martin, the motor revving to life in the quiet garage. He pulls out into the grey, rain-slicked London traffic, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He isn't going to call ahead. He's going to walk through Eppy's front door, look his husband in the face, and get the truth. The rain has turned into a steady, grey drizzle by the time the Aston Martin pulls up to the curb outside Brian’s townhome in St. John’s Wood. Paul kills the engine, slams the car door, and marches up the front steps without taking off his driving gloves. He doesn't knock. He unlocks the front door with his spare key, steps into the warm, carpeted hallway, and lets the heavy oak door snap shut behind him.

From the drawing room at the end of the hall comes the comforting, familiar sounds of late-afternoon domesticity: the gentle crackle of an original 1965 pressing of an Isley Brothers track and the clink of a teacup against a saucer. Paul peels off his wet coat, throws it over the banister, and strides straight into the drawing room. The scene inside is entirely ordinary. Brian Epstein is reclined in his favorite armchair, looking immaculate as always in a tailored sweater, nursing a cup of Earl Grey while reading the trade papers. Sprawled out on the rug in front of the fireplace, resting his back against the couch with an acoustic guitar across his lap, is John.

"Evening, Macca," John hums without looking up, his fingers lightly picking a muted chord progression. "You're early. Did the board meeting end, or did you just fire everybody?"

Brian glances up over his reading glasses, his polite smile fading the moment he catches sight of Paul's face. "Paul? Is everything alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Paul ignores Brian. He walks right up to the edge of the rug, standing directly over his husband, his hands shoved deep into his trousers pockets. "John," Paul remarks, his voice clipped and unnaturally steady.

John pauses his strumming. He looks up, peering over his round wire-rimmed glasses, his brow furrowing at the tension radiating off Paul. "Yeah? What's up with you?"

"I have one question for you," Paul says. "And I want you to answer me right here, in front of Eppy."

Brian sets his teacup down on the side table with a quiet clink, dropping his paper and looking very alert.

"Alright..." John says slowly, setting his guitar down on the carpet and sitting up straight. "Shoot."

Paul takes a deep, steadying breath. He holds John’s gaze, looking for any trace of hesitation, any flicker of guilt, any subtle shift in his posture that he had come to recognize over thirty years of knowing him. "Are you cheating on me with the jagged little pill girl?" Paul asks flatly.

A suffocating, dead silence instantly consumes the drawing room.

The record on the turntable keeps spinning, but nobody moves. Brian stares at Paul in absolute horror, looking like he's about to suffer a secondary heart attack on the spot. John just freezes. For two agonizing seconds, John looks completely blank. Then, his eyes widen behind his wire-rims, his jaw drops, and a look of such utter, visceral horror washes over his face that it's almost comedic.

"What?!" John practically shrieks, his voice cracking violently into a high Liverpool rasp. He scrambles up off the floor so fast he nearly trisd over his own guitar cable. "Are you out of your fucking mind, Paul?!"

"Answer the question, John," Paul sighs, though the rigid tension in his shoulders is already beginning to thaw.

"No! Of course not! What the hell are you talking about?!" John yells, his face turning bright red as he gestures wildly with both hands. "I don't even know her! I mean, I've seen her in the hallways! She's twenty-one! She's a child! Paul, I haven't looked at another person since Munich, and you know that! Have you gone completely mental?!"

Brian lets out a long, shuddering gasp, pressing a hand flat against his chest. "Good God, Paul, don't do that to my blood pressure..."

Paul stands there for another second, watching John pace the rug, muttering furious profanities under his breath about false accusations and Paul's total insanity. Every line of John's body language rings with absolute, unadulterated truth. He isn't lying. He isn't hiding anything. He's just deeply offended and intensely horrified. A massive, overwhelming wave of relief washes over Paul, so intense his knees almost buckle.

Without saying another word, Paul steps forward, reached out, grabs John by the front of his denim shirt, and pulls him in, kissing him deeply right on the mouth. John slams to a halt, his indignant ranting cut off mid-sentence. He stiffens in surprise for a fraction of a second before melting into the kiss, his hands instinctively wrapping around Paul's waist. When Paul finally pulls back, resting his forehead against John's, John blinks up at him, thoroughly confused.

"Not that I'm complaining," John mutters, his breath hitching slightly, "but what the hell was that about?"

Paul lets out a breathy, half-crazed laugh, stroking the back of John's neck. "Alanis Morissette walked into my office an hour ago," Paul replies softly, "and informed me that she's pregnant with your baby."

John stares at him, his mouth falling open once again. "...What?"

"Sit down, Johnny," Paul murmurs, pulling him toward the sofa. "We've got a very strange situation on our hands."

John collapses onto the sofa next to Brian, looking completely stunned. Brian is already pouring three fingers of brandy into a crystal tumbler, his hands shaking slightly as he hands one to John.

"Alright," John starts, taking a massive gulp and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "From the top, Macca. And don't leave out a bloody detail, because right now I feel like I've stepped into a surrealist play."

Paul pulls up Brian's mahogany desk chair, turning it around so he can sit straddling the back, resting his arms over the top. The adrenaline is finally leaving his system, leaving him exhausted but completely grounded again.

"She came into the office just after four," Paul says, his tone quiet as he pieces it together for them. "Said she was pregnant. I gave her the usual label speech—congratulations, we'll support you, all that. Then I asked who the dad was, just in case it was some bloke on staff taking advantage."

"And?" Brian prompts, taking a slow sip of his tea, his managerial instincts taking over the initial shock.

"She says, 'It's John.'" Paul rubs his face with both hands. "So, naturally, I think she means Rzeznik."

John scoffs, setting the brandy glass on the side table. "Rzeznik? The lad from Buffalo?"

"Or John Buck," Paul adds. "She says no to both. Then I start panicking thinking she means Elton—"

"Elton?!" John bursts out, letting out a sharp, barking laugh. "Elton’s been with Bernie since the seventies! What, did she think they were taking a sabbatical?!"

"I panicked, alright!" Paul snaps defensively, though a faint smile twitched at the corner of his lips. "Anyway, she corrects me and says, 'Your husband. John Lennon-McCartney.'"

The room falls dead silent again, save for the crackle of the fireplace.

John stares at Paul, his face twisting into a mix of utter bewilderment and rising anger. "She said my full married name? To your face?"

"In cold blood," Paul confirms. "She was completely serious, Johnny. She wasn't smirking, she wasn't trying to shake me down for money. She genuinely, one-hundred-percent believes you are the father of her child."

Brian leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his sharp analytical mind working through the puzzle. "That's impossible. John, when was the last time you were even in the same room as Ms. Morissette?"

"The album launch party in May," John nods immediately, throwing his hands up. "I said 'hello', congratulated her on the single, and went to get a sandwich! I was with you, Eppy! And then Paul and I left early because we had to feed the sheep at the farm!"

"I know," Paul smiles softly, reaching out to pat John’s knee. "I know you were with me."

"So if it's not John," Brian muses, tapping his chin with a pen he's snatched off the side table, "and she isn't lying to get money... who on earth has she been seeing?"

"Someone who told her he was me," John spits, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. "Some tosser using my name to get into her bed."

"It has to be someone with access to her," Paul adds, leaning forward. "Someone who knows the label, knows the scene, but..." He paused, frowning. "Wait. Alanis is twenty-one, brand new to London, and completely obsessed with classic sixties gear. She's got that romanticized, mythic idea of the band."

"She's a fan," John mutters, turning pale. "A bloody fan who got tricked."

"Or," Brian proposes thoughtfully, his eyes lighting up with a sudden spark of realization, "someone who looks enough like you to pull it off in a dim room."

John looks disgusted. "There isn't a man alive who looks enough like me to—"

"Oh, don't start, vanity," Paul cuts in with a snort, though his mind is already racing. "There's dozens of impersonators floating around London, Johnny. Remember that lad who tried to get free drinks at the Cavern Club last summer?"

"We need to find out where she's been spending her time," Brian says smoothly, pulling a notepad from his pocket. "Who she's been seeing outside the studio, where she shops, where she drinks. If some fraud is walking around London posing as a Beatle and knocking up our artists, McLennon Management is going to shut him down by midnight."

John leans back against the cushions, letting out a long, heavy sigh and staring at the ceiling. "I swear to God, Paul... if I find the bastard who did this, I'm going to make him sing 'Revolution 9' backwards until his vocal cords snap."

Paul laughs, reaching over to take John's hand, squeezing it tight. "Let's call Neil first," Paul said with a wicked grin. "He needs to know. And he can call up George and Ringo. They're much better at snooping around town than legal is."

"Put him on speaker, Paul," Brian commands, sinking deeper into his armchair with a heavy sigh.

Paul pulls the landline receiver away from his ear and hits the speaker button on the side table. The line crackles with static, the digital readout on the heavy desktop phone in Brian’s drawing room glowing dimly as the call goes through. After two rings, Neil Aspinall picks up, his voice coming through the speaker sharp, practical, and slightly distracted.

*"Hello? Eppy?"* Neil asks, the background hum of the main McLennon office bleeding through the receiver. *"Is everything alright? Did you forget your keys again, or are you just missing me already?"*

"It's not Brian, Neil. It's me," Paul cuts in, leaning closer to the speaker.

There's a sudden, sharp pause on the other end of the line. *"Paul?"* Neil’s tone shifts instantly, the playful warmth evaporating into crisp operational focus. *"Why are you calling me from my own house? This is you vanished to? You left your office door wide open, Alanis was looking like she’d seen a ghost in the hallway, and your schedule for the afternoon is completely shot."*

"I had to check on something personal, Neil," Paul says, keeping his voice carefully level. "Needed to see John."

A sharp inhale cuts through the speaker. *"At my house? Is Brian alright? Did you work him up over whatever happened with Morissette? Paul, I swear to God, if you brought work stress into that living room—"*

"I'm fine, Neil," Brian calls out toward the phone, though his voice sounds noticeably frailer than usual. He takesa slow, deliberate sip of his tea. "Or, at least, I will be once my heart stops hammering against my ribs."

*"Brian, put the teacup down and take a breath,"* Neil orders instantly, his voice dropping into that fiercely protective register he reserves exclusively for his husband. *"I told you not to let anyone get you worked up before dinner. What on earth did Paul do?"*

"Paul accused me of knocking up the Canadian," John chimes in from the sofa, taking another healthy swig of his brandy. "In front of Eppy! Nearly gave him a secondary heart attack right there on the rug."

A long, heavy, absolute silence stretches over the line.

*"...He did what?"* Neil asks, his voice dropping an octave into a tone so cold it could freeze hot water.

"It’s a long story, Neil," Paul sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Turns out she genuinely thinks she’s been seeing John. But Johnny was with me, so someone in London is walking around using his bloody name."

*"Right,"* Neil snaps, the sharp sound of papers being aggressively shuffled echoing through the receiver. *"Right. Okay. First off, Paul, you are never barging in on Brian with a bomb like that again without giving me a heads-up so I can handle him first. Second, if some fraud is impersonating label brass and putting our artists—and Brian’s health—through this kind of nightmare, I’m going to personally see to it he never works in this city again."*

"That's why we called," Paul says smoothly. "We need someone to do a bit of quiet digging around town. Eppy's laid up, you're stuck at the desk, and if John or I step foot into a record shop or a club to ask questions, the press will have a field day."

*"You want George and Ringo,"* Neil states flatly.

"They're the only two who can wander around Camden and Soho without causing a total riot," John agrees, leaning closer to the phone. "Plus, Geo loves a good conspiracy, and Ringo’s got mates in every dark corner of the city."

*"I'll ring them now,"* Neil says, his voice dropping right back into his sharp, efficient managerial groove. *"I'll have them come by the office, give them the lowdown on where Alanis hangs out, and send them on their way. But Brian—"*

"I'm going to take a lie-down, Neil," Brian promises, offering a reassuring smile toward the phone even though Neil can't see it. "I promise."

*"Good. I'll be home in an hour. Don't let John drink all the brandy."*

The line goes dead with a soft click.

John looks at the receiver, then at Paul, letting out a rough bark of laughter. "Well. The cavalry's mobilized. God help whoever that poor bastard is when George and Ringo track him down."

The heavy mahogany doors to Neil’s corner office swing open without a knock, admitting George Harrison and Ringo Starr in a cloud of rain-damp denim and expensive aftershave. George is already unwinding a thick wool scarf from his neck, looking around the pristine office with a raised eyebrow. Ringo follows closely behind, clutching a paper bag from a local bakery, a half-eaten scone tucked into one hand.

"Alright, Neil?" Ringo asks, taking a hefty bite. "Got your message. Sounded like the building was on fire. Is Paul having another meltdown about vinyl pressing weights?"

Neil doesn't look up immediately. He's seated behind his wide teak desk, scribbling notes onto a legal pad with rapid, practiced precision. He caps his pen, sets it down with a crisp clack, and finally looks over the top of his reading glasses at the two of them.

"Paul isn't here," Neil says flatly. "And neither is John. They're both at my house, wearing out Brian's carpet and giving him gray hair."

George pauses, his scarf hanging half-draped over his arm. His dark eyes narrow slightly. "Eppy’s alright, isn't he? Paul didn't go dumping board room nonsense on him, did he?"

"Brian is resting," Neil replies, his tone hard and protective. "Because Paul decided to barge into the drawing room—without warning—and ask John whether he was sleeping with Alanis Morissette."

Ringo stops chewing. His eyes went wide as saucers under his dark fringe. "He asked him what?"

"You're taking the mickey," George scoffs, crossing his arms and leaning against the edge of Neil’s desk. "Johnny’s whipped as a dog. He hasn't looked at another bird since the mid-seventies, let alone a kid fresh off the boat from Canada."

"He hasn't," Neil agrees smoothly. "John is completely innocent. The problem is, Ms. Morissette walked into Paul’s office two hours ago, announced she was pregnant, and swore on her life that the father is John Lennon-McCartney."

Ringo lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Bloody hell. Paul must’ve gone up like a box of fireworks."

"He was... surprisingly composed, right up until he drove to St. John's Wood to interrogate John," Neil says, leaning back in his leather chair. "Now, we have a very specific, very ugly problem. John didn't do it. Alanis isn't lying to get money—she genuinely believes she’s been seeing John. Which means someone in this city is walking around pretending to be a Beatle."

George’s face undergoes a rapid transformation, shifting from amused disbelief to a dark, dangerous intrigue. "Someone's impersonating John?"

"And using the label's name to take advantage of our artists," Neil adds, his voice dropping into that icy, no-nonsense register that usually means lawsuits or firings. "Which is stressing Brian out, disrupting the label, and making a mess of Paul and John’s household. I want it handled. Fast."

"So you called the heavy artillery," Ringo grins, dusting scone crumbs off his leather jacket. "What's the plan, guv'nor?"

Neil pushes a small piece of paper across the desk. Written on it are three addresses in neat, sharp cursive. "Alanis isn't familiar with London yet," Neil explains. "According to her assistant, when she’s not in the studio, she spends her time in three places: a vintage clothing shop in Soho, a tea room near Regent’s Park, and a secondhand record shop down off Camden High Street called Subterranean Sounds."

George picks up the paper, thumbing the edge thoughtfully. "She thinks she met John at one of these?"

"She likely knows John used to sneak away from management duties to hunt for old obscure singles in the late eighties," Neil says. "Our imposter likely works at one of these spots, or frequents them enough to play the part. I need the two of you to go down there, ask a few quiet questions, find out who this bastard is, and report back."

"Quiet questions?" George smirks, a sharp, mischievous glimmer in his eye as he carefully folds the paper and slips it into his jacket pocket. "Neil, mate. We're the Beatles. We don't do quiet."

"Just don't start a riot," Neil warns, though the faint ghost of a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. "And if you find him, don't break anything expensive. Legal will take it from there."

"Right," Ringo nods, tossing the rest of his scone bag into Neil’s rubbish bin and pulling his sunglasses down over his eyes. "Come on, Geo. Let's go catch a fake Lennon."

The black London taxi pulls to the curb along Camden High Street, idling against the rhythmic beat of late-afternoon rain. Ringo slides out first, popping open a massive black umbrella with a sharp thwack. George steps out behind him, pulling his scarf tighter around his chin and squinting up through the drizzle at the row of cramped, vibrant storefronts.

"Right," George murmurs, pulling Neil’s paper from his coat pocket and shielding it from the rain. "First stop is the vintage shop on the corner. Yesterday's Papers."

"Fitting name," Ringo grunts, dodging a puddle as they walk toward the shop front. "Let's hope the owner isn't a chatterbox. My boots are leaking."

The bell above the door chimes as they step inside. The shop smells heavily of old leather, mothballs, and damp velvet. Behind the counter sits a young woman with neon-green hair, idly turning the page of a music magazine. She looks up, freezes mid-turn, and stares. George gives her a pleasant, practiced half-smile—the one that usually disarms fans before they can start screaming.

"Afternoon, luv. Quick question for you."

"You're... you're George Harrison," she squeaks, dropping the magazine flat onto the counter. "And Ringo Starr. In Camden."

"In the flesh, mate," Ringo says, leaning his umbrella against the umbrella stand. "Listen, we're looking for a friend of ours. Well, a bloke who looks like a friend of ours. Tall, wire-rim glasses, acts like he owns the place, speaks like he's straight off the Mersey?"

The girl blinks, her brain struggling to catch up. "You mean... John Lennon?"

"Not the real one," George clarifies smoothly, stepping closer to the counter and resting his forearms on the glass. "Someone playing dress-up. Have you seen anyone like that hanging around here lately? Maybe coming in with a young Canadian girl? Long dark hair, heavy leather coat?"

"Oh!" The girl's eyes light up. "You mean Alanis! She was in here two weeks ago looking at vintage suede jackets." She pauses, her brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "She was with a guy who looked a lot like Mr. Lennon. I thought it was him, honestly. He was wearing round specs and talking about old singles."

"Did he buy anything?" Ringo asks, leaning in.

"No, she bought the jacket for him," the girl says. "He kept saying he forgot his wallet, but he'd 'make it up to her at the studio.' Then they walked down toward the record shop at the end of the block."

George and Ringo exchange a sharp, knowing look.

"The record shop," George repeats quietly. "Subterranean Sounds?"

"Yeah," the girl nods. "He said he had a 'shift' there, which I thought was weird if he was... well, you know. But Alanis seemed totally smitten."

Ringo taps his fingers against the glass counter with a dry, ironic laugh. "A shift. The fake Beatle works a nine-to-five."

"Thanks, luv," George says, tossing a quick, warm smile to the girl as he backs toward the door. "You've been a massive help."

"Don't take any wooden nickels!" Ringo calls out over his shoulder as they push back out into the rain.

Once back on the slick pavement, George pulls his collar up against the wind, his eyes fixed on the illuminated neon sign of Subterranean Sounds glowing faintly three doors down.

"A record shop clerk," George mutters under his breath, a dark, amused grin spreading across his face. "John’s going to lose his bloody mind when he hears this."

"Come on, Geo," Ringo rolls his eyes, adjusting his sunglasses despite the gloomy sky. "Let's go say hello to the temp."

The walk down the rain-slicked pavement between Yesterday's Papers and Subterranean Sounds is short, but it gives George and Ringo just enough time to synchronized their plan.

"How do you want to play this?" Ringo asks, keeping his massive umbrella angled low against the gusting wind. "Bad cop, worse cop?"

"Quietly ruthless," George murmurs, his eyes locked on the warm, amber glow spilling from the record shop's front window. "No scene, no shouting. Just heavy enough that the lad realizes he’s way out of his depth."

They stop just outside the shopfront. Through the glass, framed by rows of vinyl displays and vintage posters, they can see him: a gangly figure behind the counter, bent over a cardboard box of imports, wearing the suede jacket Alanis had bought him. From this angle, with the rain blurring the glass and the dim lighting of the shop, the resemblance is almost eerie—the posture, the wire-rimmed specs, the cropped hair.

"Bloody uncanny," Ringo mutters under his breath, stepping under the awning and shaking out his umbrella. "If you were half-blind and starstruck, you might actually buy it."

"Key word being half-blind," George says dryly. He reaches out, grabbed the brass handle of the front door, and looked over at Ringo. "Ready, Ritchie?"

Ringo adjusts his sunglasses with a small, dangerous smirk. "Lead on, Geo."

The heavy glass door swings open. The bell above chimes with a high, cheerful ping that feels entirely out of place for the tension stepping into the room. Behind the counter, Gary Gibson is attempting to look like a man who casually carries the weight of a musical generation on his shoulders. He has the round wire-rimmed spectacles perched just so on the bridge of his nose, the slouch down to a science, and the vintage suede jacket resting easily over a black turtleneck. Then the door swings fully shut, the bell echoes one last time, and the air in the shop grows very thin, very quickly.

George Harrison doesn’t walk into the shop so much as he glides in with the quiet, menacing aura of a man who spends his weekends meditating on cosmic peace but is entirely prepared to break a vintage guitar over someone’s head for messing with his family. Right behind him, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of a dark leather coat, is Ringo Starr. Gary blinks. He freezes, a half-unpacked box of imported 12-inch singles resting in his arms.

"R-Ringo?" Gary stammers, his voice cracking out of his carefully practiced Liverpool drawl into a high-pitched, suburban panic. "George?"

Ringo stops by a display rack, casually leafing through a row of cassette tapes without looking at them. "Look at this, Geo," Ringo says, his tone low, calm, and utterly terrifying. "He’s even got the hair right. Very mid-era. Very Rubber Soul."

"A bit too neat around the ears, if you ask me," George replies, strolling straight past the front display counters. He doesn't look at the vinyl. He looks Gary up and down like he 's inspecting a dubious piece of secondhand furniture. "And the chin’s all wrong. John’s got a much sharper jawline when he’s furious. Which, funny enough, he happens to be right now."

Gary backs up until his shoulder blades hit the wooden shelving unit behind the register, nearly knocking over a stack of promotional posters. "Listen, gents, if this is about the discount on the imports—"

"It's about a girl, mate," Ringo interrupts smoothly, leaning his elbows on the glass counter. He peers over his sunglasses, blue eyes deadpan and unblinking. "A very loud Canadian girl. Selling a lot of CDs right now on McLennon Records."

Gary’s face drains of every ounce of color. The round glasses suddenly look entirely too big for his face. "I... I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, come off it," George sighs, crossing his arms. He leans against the end-cap of the rock section, radiating pure, unimpressed disdain. "You knew John used to frequent this shop back when he was avoiding management duties in the late eighties. You showed up, looking like a budget wax figure, and when a kid fresh off the boat from Toronto mistook you for the actual John Lennon-McCartney, you didn't correct her."

"I was going to!" Gary blurts out, his hands flying up defensively. "I swears it! But she... she just started talking about demos, and production budgets, and how she wanted a legend to hear her stuff... I just... I rolled with it!"

"Rolled with it," Ringo repeats. He taps a single ringed finger against the glass. Click. Click. Click. "Rolled right into knocking her up, didn't you, match-stick?"

"I thought I could get a deal!" Gary pleads, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "She said she had Paul’s ear! I thought if I played along, maybe she’d pass my tapes to the label! I didn't know she was going to go straight to Macca and tell him John was the dad! I swear to God, I didn't mean to blow up the bloody Beatles!"

George stares at him for a long, heavy moment. The silence in the shop is suffocating, broken only by the hum of the overhead fluorescent light. Slowly, the corner of George’s mouth twitches into a faint, dark smirk. "Blow up the Beatles?" George laughs under his breath, shaking his head. "Mate, Paul nearly threw a potted fern through a studio window two hours ago. Brian’s currently taking two extra heart pills, and Neil is drawing up legal paperwork that will ensure you never even see a record player again."

Ringo leans in a little closer across the counter, dropping his voice to a quiet, firm rumble. "Here's what's going to happen, Gary. You’re going to walk into the McLennon offices tomorrow morning. You’re going to look Ms. Morissette in the eye, and you’re going to tell her the exact, pathetic truth."

"And if you try to run?" George adds mildly, reaching out to adjust one of Gary's wire-rimmed glasses so they sit crookedly on his nose. "We'll let John handle it personally. And trust me, he doesn't use legal paperwork."

Gary swallows hard, nodding so fast his glasses threaten to slip off entirely. "Tomorrow. First thing. I'll be there."

"Good lad," Ringo nods, giving the counter a light, final slap. He turns toward the exit. "Oh, and Gary?"

Gary flinches. "Yeah?"

"Lose the jacket," Ringo calls over his shoulder. "It’s not your style."

The glass-walled office on the third floor of McLennon Productions is taut with tension. Paul sits behind his desk, looking every bit the razor-sharp executive, though his jaw is set like granite. Leaning against the front edge of the desk—arms crossed, one leg dangling lazily over the side—is John. He wears his favorite dark turtleneck and wire-rimmed Buddy Holly glasses, his expression a unreadable mix of cold boredom and quiet irritation.

Standing dead-still by the heavy oak door is Mal Evans. Retired from road management years ago, Mal is mostly there to enjoy his golden years, but today he's serving as pure, silent muscle. At six-foot-six, arms folded over a massive chest, he looks like a brick wall in a tailored suit.

The door opened, and Alanis walks in.

She carries herself with a supreme, unbothered confidence—the air of someone who believes she's the absolute main character in whatever room she graces. She doesn't even notice Mal looming behind her as the door clicks shut. Her eyes fall straight on John. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across her face.

"Hey, John," she purrs, taking a slow, dramatic step toward the desk, ignoring Paul entirely. "I figured you'd be here. Though I didn't think you'd have the guts to look me in the eye after yesterday."

John doesn't move an inch. He just tilts his head, peering over his round lenses with a look of supreme detachment. "Is that right?"

Alanis turns her gaze to Paul, her smile twisting into something smugly patronizing. "I'm glad you brought me up here, Paul. I know this must be humiliating for you, but honestly, it's for the best. You can't force a man to stay in a loveless marriage when he's found something real. We can draw up the settlement papers whenever you're ready to accept reality."

Paul slowly leans back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers. He looks at her not with anger, but with the cold, pitying composure of a man who holds every single card in the deck. "Are you finished?" He asks softly.

Alanis blinks, thrown off by his complete lack of tears or rage. "Excuse me?"

"Because," John cuts in, his voice dropping into a dry, heavy Liverpool rasp, "I've got about three minutes before I lose my temper, luv, and I'd really love to know why you think I've ever laid a hand on you."

Alanis scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Oh, please! Don't play coy for his benefit, John! The apartment in Islington? The vintage shop? The suede jacket I bought you two weeks ago?" She steps closer, reaching out as if to touch John's arm. "You said you loved me."

John flinches back like she's holding a hot iron, his lip curling in utter disgust. "Don't touch me."

Before she can process the rejection, Paul taps a single pen against his desk. Click. "Mal," Paul requests flatly. "Bring him in."

Mal doesn't say a word. He simply turns, cracking the heavy office door open, and hauls Gary Gibson into the room by the collar of his oversized cardigan. Gary looks like he's about to vomit. Without his wire-rimmed glasses and styled hair, he's just a pale, shivering twenty-something from the record shop, clutching a crumpled paper bag to his chest. The silence in the room becomes suffocating as Alanis’s brain completely short-circuits. She stands frozen between the two men, her gaze darting wildly back and forth.

On the edge of the desk remains John Lennon-McCartney—slouched, dark turtleneck, wire-rimmed glasses, looking at her with cold, unimpressed annoyance. And standing by the door, held firmly in Mal Evans’s iron grip, is the other John. The John who wears vintage suede, who spent hours with her at the tea room in Camden, who kissed her in the rain, and who—up until five seconds ago—she believed was taking a temporary sabbatical from running the biggest record label in Europe.

"What..." Alanis’s voice drops into a bewildered, breathless rasp. She points a shaking finger at the John on the desk. "What is happening? Why is Mal holding him?" She turned back to the John at the door, her expression a mix of desperate confusion and rising panic. "John... why are there two of you? Is this a bit? Is he your stunt double? A body double for the press?!"

The real John lets out a harsh, barking laugh, shaking his head as he leans his elbows on his knees. "A stunt double? Luv, I’m a fifty-five-year-old musician, not James bloody Bond."

"Alanis," Paul says quietly, his tone laced with absolute executive authority. "Look at the man at the door. Look at his face. Look at his hands."

Alanis slowly turns to face Gary. Deprived of the dim lighting of Subterranean Sounds, the slicked-back hair, and his wire-rimmed glasses, the illusion shatters into a million pieces. Gary stands there in a stretched-out, secondhand cardigan, pale, trembling, and sweating profusely under Mal’s heavy gaze.

"Alanis..." Gary whimpers, his voice cracking out of his forced Liverpool drawl into a high-pitched, suburban Islington accent. "I'm... I'm so sorry. I swear I was gonna tell you..."

The color completely drains from her face. Her hands drop to her sides. "You're..." She stumbles over her words, stepping back until her spine hit the edge of Paul’s desk. "You're not... you're not John Lennon."

"No," Gary squeaks, cowering slightly. "I'm Gary. I work at the record shop on Camden High."

"You... you lied to me?" Alanis’s voice pitches up, the reality crashing down on her like a tidal wave. "I bought you a jacket! I gave you my demo tapes! You told me you were lying low to escape the media!"

"You called me Mr. Lennon the first day I was shopping there!" Gary blurts out defensively, clutching his arms around himself. "You said you were on the McLennon label! I thought if I played along, I could get a demo to Paul! I didn't mean for any of this to happen!"

"You slept with me!" she shrieks, her main-character swagger completely dissolving into sheer, humiliating rage. "You knocked me up, you pathetic little fraud!"

"Right!" Paul’s voice cuts through the shouting like a razor blade. He stands up from his leather chair, resting both hands flat on his desk. The room falls instantly silent. Paul doesn't look angry; he looks coldly efficient. "Alanis, sit down."

She doesn't move for a second, her chest heaving, her face flushed red with a mixture of rage and profound embarrassment. But under Paul's unyielding stare, she slowly sinks into the leather armchair. John slides off the desk, walking over to stand right beside Paul, crossing his arms over his chest.

"So," John sighs, peering down at her over his glasses. "Now that we've cleared up that I haven't laid eyes on you since May... do you want to tell my husband what this was really about?"

Alanis stares down at her lap, her knuckles white as she clutches the armrests of the leather chair. The silence in the room is heavy, punctured only by the ragged sound of Gary’s terrified breathing near the door. Neil steps into the room, stepping past Mal with a crisp leather portfolio tucked under his arm. He doesn't even glance at Gary; his entire focus is on clearing the radioactive fallout off Paul's rug.

"Here's how this is going to go," Neil declares, his voice flat, precise, and devoid of warmth. He opens the folder and hands a multi-page document to Mal, who presssd it firmly into Gary's trembling hands along with a pen.

"Mr. Gibson," Neil continues, "you are currently looking at criminal impersonation, fraud, and corporate extortion. However, Mr. Epstein has graciously agreed to withhold press releases and police involvement on one condition."

Gary nods so fast his head looks ready to snap off. "Anything. I'll do anything."

"You are signing a non-disclosure agreement with a liquidated damages clause that will ensure you spend the rest of your natural life paying off the McLennon legal team if you speak a single word of this to a living soul," Neil says coolly. "You will resign from Subterranean Sounds by 5:00 PM today, and you will move out of London by the end of the week."

"Done. Signed. It's signed," Gary stammers, frantically scribbling his signature on the bottom line against Mal’s giant palm before handing the clip back.

"Mal," Paul nods shortly from behind his desk. "Show Mr. Gibson the exit. Ensure he gets straight into a cab."

"Right away, Paul," Mal grunts.

He grabs Gary by the nape of his cardigan like a scruffy tomcat and hauled him out into the corridor, shutting the heavy oak door behind them with a definitive thwack. With Gary gone, the tension in the room shifts entirely onto Alanis. She swallows hard, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor.

"I suppose you're dropping me," she says, her voice small, stripped of all its former bravado. "Canceling the album. Tearing up the contract."

John takes a step forward, leaning against the edge of the desk again. He looks down at her, his usual sardonic bite softening into something grounded and surprisingly gentle. "Luv," John sighs, "if we dropped every artist who got fooled by a charlatan or made a bloody mess of their personal life, McLennon Records wouldn't have a single singer on the roster. Hell, we wouldn't even be on it."

Alanis looks up, blinking back tears. "You're... you're not firing me?"

Paul walks around the desk, leaning back against it next to John. "You tried to use a legend to boost your standing, Alanis," Paul says, his broad accent warm but firm. "That was foolish. And coming in here threatening my marriage? Unforgivable if it weren't so completely absurd." He pauses, offering her a faint, reassuring smile. "But we signed you because of your songs, not your taste in blokes," Paul continues. "The label stands by its artists. We'll set up a trust for the child. You'll take whatever time off you need for maternity leave, and when you're ready, we finish Jagged Little Pill."

Alanis stares at both of them, completely stunned, before letting out a long, shuddering breath. "Thank you. I... I'm so sorry, Mr. McCartney. Mr. Lennon. I really am."

"Go on downstairs," Neil advises smoothly, opening the door for her. "My assistant has a tea waiting, and we'll get your cab home sorted."

"Thank you, Mr. Aspinall." As Alanis quietly exits, Neil closes the door behind her and lets out a massive, bone-deep sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I'm going home to Brian. He's probably reorganizing my bookshelf out of sheer nervous energy."

"Tell Eppy I'm bringing him a bottle of the good scotch tomorrow," John calls out as Neil leaves.

Once they're finally alone, the quiet of the office settles over them. John turns to Paul, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him close. "So," John murmurs, resting his chin on Paul's shoulder. "No secret babies, no divorce, no scandal. Just another quiet Wednesday at the office."

Paul laughs softly, burying his face in the crook of John's neck. "Shut up, Johnny. You're taking me to dinner."

The rain has eased into a soft London drizzle by the time they step out the side entrance of the McLennon building, slipping into the back seat of Paul’s dark blue Bentley. The city lights bleed across the wet asphalt as the driver pulls into the early evening traffic, heading toward a quiet, corner-booth Italian joint in Soho that has been keeping Beatle secrets since 1964. Inside, the restaurant is warm, dim, and smells of garlic, red wine, and toasted bread.

The owner gives them a quick, silent nod of recognition, leading them straight past the main dining room to a high-backed leather booth tucked safely out of sight behind a velvet curtain. John slides in first, immediately kicking his legs out under the small table and slumping back against the leather with a dramatic, bone-deep groan.

"If anyone so much as mentions the word demo, contract, or Canada in the next two hours, I’m throwing a breadstick at their head," John declares, snatching up his napkin and snapping it open over his lap.

Paul laughes, sitting down across from him and leaning his elbows on the checkered tablecloth. The tight, executive tension that has held his shoulders square all day finally melts away. He looks at his husband—messy fringe, wire-rimmed glasses crooked, dark turtleneck looking slightly rumpled—and feels the lingering edge of the day's insanity completely evaporate.

"You have to admit, Johnny," Paul starts, a mischievous spark dancing in his hazel eyes as he reaches for the wine list, "for about ten minutes back there, you were a very busy man."

John glares at him over his glasses, though the corner of his mouth is twitching upwards. "Don't start, Macca. I’m the victim here! My likeness was stolen! My honor was impugned! And worst of all, Neil nearly let Brian hear about it before he had his afternoon tea."

"Oh, Eppy’s fine," Paul hums, waving a dismissive hand. "Neil rang while we were in the car. Said Brian took two valerian roots, watched a BBC documentary on antique clocks, and is currently sound asleep."

"Thank God," John mutters, reaching across the small table to snag a piece of warm crusty bread from the basket. He breaks off a chunk, dips it in olive oil, and points it threateningly at Paul. "And as for you... accusing me in front of the whole house!"

"I didn't accuse you," Paul corrects smoothly, leaning back as the waiter sets down two glasses of deep red Chianti. "I asked a clarifying question. And the moment I saw your ridiculous, horrified face, I knew you were innocent."

"My face wasn't ridiculous," John huffs, taking a sip of wine. "It was the face of an aggrieved, faithful husband."

"It was the face of a man who looked like he’d been hit over the head with a wet fish," Paul counters gently.

He reaches across the table, his fingers tracing the back of John’s hand until John lets out a soft sigh and intertwines their fingers. The low hum of the restaurant washes over them. Outside, the light rain taps steadily against the frosted glass of the window beside their booth. For a long while, they just eat—pasta, rich tomato sauce, warm bread—and talk about nothing that has anything to do with McLennon Productions. They talk about the garden at the farm, Ringo’s latest obsession with indoor photography, and a song idea Paul had scribbled on an envelope three days ago.

When the coffee arrives, John leans his chin in his hand, looking at Paul across the small candle lit between them. "She’s really going to be alright, isn't she?" John asks softly, the sharp satirical edge completely gone from his voice. "The Morissette kid?"

Paul takes a slow sip of his espresso, nodding. "She is. She's tough, Johnny. A bit green, a bit overly dramatic... but talented as hell. We'll make sure she's looked after. No press, no quiet drop from the label, no fuss."

"Good," John murmurs. He rubbed a thumb over Paul's knuckles. "Because if I have to adopt another kid by proxy, I'm making you change the nappies."

Paul bursts out laughing, shaking his head as he reaches for the check. "Come on, old man. Let's get you home before someone else tries to impersonate you."

The Bentley glides through the rain-slicked streets of St. John’s Wood, pulling into the private driveway of their London townhome just as the rain settles into a quiet, misting fog. Paul uses his key to open the heavy front door, kicking it shut behind them with his heel while John immediately sheds his boots right in the entryway, leaving them scattered on the parquet floor. The house is cool and dark, holding that deep, comfortable silence that only comes after a long day of external noise.

"Don't even bother turning the lamps on, Macca," John grumbles, his voice thick with exhaustion as he unbuttons his cardigan in the dark and drapes it over the banister. "If I see another bright light today, my head's going to split open."

"Fair enough," Paul murmurs.

He navigates the shadowy hallway by heart, heading straight up the carpeted stairs. In their bedroom upstairs, the only light comes from the orange glow of the streetlamps filtering through the sheer lace curtains, casting soft, striped shadows across the wide bed. John doesn't bother changing into pajamas. He unbuttons his trousers, kicks them onto a chair, and collapses face-down onto the mattress with a muffled groan that sounds like a dying accordion.

Paul smiles softly, taking his time to hang his trousers and fold his sweater properly over the back of the valet stand. He slips under the heavy duvet, pulling the cool sheets up to his chest, and reaches over to run his fingers through the messy, damp fringe at the back of John's neck.

"Move over, sleeping beauty," Paul whisperes.

John grunts, rolling over onto his side and burying his face directly into the crook of Paul's neck, his long legs instantly tangling with Paul's under the blanket. One heavy arm flops over Paul's waist, anchoring him down.

"Never letting you go back to the office without me," John mutters into Paul's collarbone, his voice trailing off into a sleepy rasp. "Too dangerous. You come home accusing me of scandal."

"You love the excitement," Paul strokes the small of John's back, feeling the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. The frantic panic from four o'clock yesterday afternoon feels like it belongs to a completely different week. "Go to sleep, Johnny."

"Mmm... night, Macca."

Within two minutes, John's breathing evens out into a deep, steady rhythm. Paul lies awake in the quiet dark for a few moments longer, listening to the rain tap against the windowpane, before closing his eyes and letting the rest of the world melt away.