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demeterqueenYou May Be A Lover But You Ain't No Dancer
Part XVII- One Year
Author: demeterqueen
Pairing: John/Paul
Words: 2248
Rating: NC-17
Summary: After his death in the future, Paul is given the gift of a second chance. Will he blow this shot at love? Will the choices he make destroy those around him?
Story Warnings: character death, timeline changes, alternate universe
Disclaimer: This is an alternate universe piece. Never happened, obviously. Real person slash.
Oh where did I, go wrong my love?
What petty crime was I found guilty of?
What better time to find a brand new day?
“George,” Paul acknowledged with a grin, unsurprised, as he sat down before the glass, comb in hand. His guest was sitting in the middle of the neatly made bed, feet bare and crossed beneath him.
“Eh… hullo Paul,” the guitarist replied, a bit breathless as his eyes roved involuntarily down the bare back and across the long expanse of creamy skin. McCartney had just returned from his long afternoon soak in the en suite bath, and was clad loosely in a hunter green towel. “Sorry ‘bout this, Lennon sent me over. I didn’t know you’d be in the bath. Does he ‘ave something special planned for tonight?” he asked rapidly.
“You could have waited downstairs,” laughed Paul. “And he’s not telling me,” he complained, pouting playfully and carefully detangling his bangs. “But he’s having Anthony pick me up at six. Hand me the blower, will ya?” He pointing to the hair dryer which was just out of reach.
George struggled to his feet, grimacing as that awful pins-and-needles sensation proclaimed the return of his circulation to his numb appendages. “Been that way for a while?” the bassist asked sympathetically just before the dryer roared to life, reeking of burnt hair even on the lowest setting.
Harrison revealed the prayer beads hidden in his free hand, indicating that he’d been meditating at least as long as Paul’s two hour immersion. “In the future, do they come up with better ones?” he shouted.
“Wait ‘til you get your hands on an ionizer!” McCartney returned over the miniature jet engine. “Less frizz, more volume!” He turned the blower off, scowling as he inspected his split ends.
“John’s right,” sniggered Geo, “you’re a bird.”
“That seems to be the general consensus, yes,” snarked the other, accepting the tease and standing, noticeably without his towel.
George’s mouth fell slack.
Making no comment, the lyricist smugly turned and opened the armoire, selecting a charcoal grey suit and a lilac coloured dress shirt. As poor Hari quickly turned around, attempting to hide the blooming blush, Paul dressed efficiently, pleased to see that the creases were still iron-crisp on this pair of trousers, which were relatively new.
“Hand me my cufflinks, will you?”
“Where do you keep them?” muttered George, trying to ignore the image of a damp and naked Paul McCartney which had seared itself in his retinas.
“Um... should be in that little cardboard box on the dresser.” McCartney slid a belt through the loops in the trousers.
Harrison stepped over the towel and selected one box among many. “This one?”
“Mm?” Paul was sitting on the bed, tugging on black socks.
“With the Christmas-y print? Holly leaves and such? Silverish?”
“Yup,” confirmed Paul, wiggling his other foot into the sock. “Silverish, you say?”
“Silveresque, like.”
“Also not a word... I think. Maybe.”
“What does it matter?”
“Principle of the thing, Georgie, old sport. Old chap. Old man. Can’t have you running rampant ‘round here, teaching my kids words that aren’t words. You’ll keep them out of Oxford!”
“Running rampant? Am I a plague then?”
“A pox upon both our houses!”
“Heh.” George snorted, and they both laughed.
“Think I need I tie?”
“Depends on the location.”
Paul shook his head. “I was hoping you’d know.”
“I am but a lowly slave,” George complained, miming shackles on his wrists. “They sent me to keep you occupied.”
“Ha! So you did know he was planning something!” the bassist accused, rummaging through the rack for the shoes that matched his belt.
“Fuck. Well, no, technically I knew Brian was planning something.”
“Well then, call Brian and find out if this is a tie-or-no-tie affair.” He threw the receiver to the telephone across to George, who caught it.
“Dial ‘im,” Geo requested, wrapping the cord around his fingers. Paul did.
On the second ring, someone picked up. “Eppy, Epper, and Epstein, Jews at Law! This is Joanie, how may I help you?” breezed John’s falsetto imitation of a secretary.
“Hey John, it’s me, George.”
“Need Brian then?” Still in that ridiculous chirpy voice.
“Um, I’ve been enlisted to find out if Paul’ll need a tie.”
John’s tone changed entirely. “Does he have you tied up with shoelaces? Has he been torturing yah with painful, continual renditions of “Yesterday”? If you need help, just say ‘rickshaw’.”
“Rickshaw?” Paul mouthed, who had been listening the whole time.
“Rickshaw?!” repeated George.
“Mal’ll be right over!” John exclaimed. “Hang on!”
Paul took the phone out of George’s hand. “Actually, it was “Michelle”, but good guess, love. Bye!” He unceremoniously dropped the phone onto the cradle. “That was a waste,” he sighed.
“There’s somebody comin’ up the drive,” Harrison noted, lifting the curtain to peer out the
open window.
“Whose car?”
“Don’t recognize it.”
Paul straightened his jacket. “Could be anybody, I guess. Since the party everybody seems to know where we live.”
“That explains the birds hanging out around the front gate.”
“Yeah, they’re good girls. Most of them used to hang ‘round the house in the city. Rosie
brings them biscuits and lemonade in the afternoons, and they walk Martha a lot.”
“May be one of ‘em now,” suggested George as the crown of a female head peaked into view.
“Driving a Jag?” Paul countered, as he got a better look at the sleek black car from the hall window. He hurried down the stairs, shouting “I’ll get it!” to Dot before the bell even rang.
He pulled open the front door, surprising his visitor. “Paul! I’m sorry, have I come at a bad time?” said the woman, taking a small step backward. She was his height, ice blonde hair cropped close to her scalp, wearing an attractive cotton print dress and white ballet flats.
“Cara,” he smiled, ushering her inside. “It’s never a bad time for you, luv. I thought I
invited you to my little soiree, but I never saw you.”
“Oh, that,” she laughed, blue eyes roving over every inch of house she could see. “Totalled my Jaguar on the way to the party. A tourist ran a red light.”
“Oh, God, were you hurt?” hissed McCartney, seating her in the parlour.
“It was the strangest thing, Paul. My poor car was utterly destroyed, but there was barely scratch on me! My dad called it a miracle.”
The bassist sighed, guiltily thinking of Jenny for just a moment. It was possible... “How is your father, Cara?” Dr Edwards was an American surgeon who had come to London during the War and had never left, choosing instead to stay and marry a pretty British nurse.
It was Cara Edwards who had arranged for Linda’s flat in the city, American enough to understand Lin’s troubles adjusting to British life. Like Linda, Cara was a photographer, but most of the time she was away in Israel, recording the conflict there to be broadcast by the BBC. She was the only female on the team, a position she held with pride.
“Well as can be expected. Sorry to have to buy me a new car so soon, perhaps,” she chuckled. “It was a birthday present, only two months old.” She glanced about the room, which was nice but rather nondescript. “You promised me a tour of your home, Paulie.”
“Did I?” he replied, feigning surprise as he caught a glimpse of George in the doorway, winking and waving goodbye. He got out a brief nod before his friend departed.
Cara didn’t notice. “Well, what I’d really like is a tour of your stables,” she confessed. “Rumour has it that you have a gorgeous brute locked in there.” She was a champion equestrian.
“Alexander— seventeen hands, black as sin and just as mean,” expounded Paul proudly.
“Fabulous! Do you ride him often?”
“Almost every day, though sometimes when I’m not in the mood for a bruising, I take my
Appaloosa. She’s better for the woods, though she’s a plains horse.”
“I’m jealous,” Cara complained with warmth in her expression. “I just can’t always make time to see mine, try as I might. Too bad St. John’s Wood doesn’t have a public stable closer by. Who tends them?”
“I had a boy— the nanny’s brother Jeremy— to look after them, but he’s recently chosen to leave our employment. Until I find someone new, I do it myself.”
“Paul McCartney mucks stalls!” she giggled. Then, sobering, she offered her condolences on the death of Miss Hale. “I read all about it in the papers. The official inquest said it was an accident?”
“Yes.”
“But the press was terrible about it, still. You’d think they’d have something better to chase—”
“—Says an elite member of their inner sanctum,” he teased.
“Inner sanctums are overrated,” she dismissed.
“When do you leave again?”
“Oh, not for ages, I’m afraid. I’ve been thinking I might like to go to Vietnam in the meantime.”
He furrowed his brow. “Why?”
She smiled. “You’re cute when you do that, you know. I like the adventure, and that people think a woman can’t do what I do.”
“You like to prove them wrong?”
“Mm hm.”
“I can live with that,” Paul murmured, knowing the feeling.
She took his hand, and he unconsciously closed his larger palm around hers. “So, no girls in your life?”
“Two, actually.”
“Heather and Mary. I saw the photos; they look like Linda.”
“More and more every day,” he agreed.
“And you and John are well?”
He started, just slightly, enough to pull away from her grasp. She smirked. “Easy, Paul. I’ve
known for a long time now. Lin told me.”
He appeared slightly hurt. “She told you?”
Cara tried to put him at ease. “I guessed. You’re not as clever as you think, McCartney. I looked at her photographs and put it together.”
“Well, fuck, Care.”
“I’d like to see the kids sometime,” she continued, ignoring him.
He nodded, caught the time on the clock, and stood. “Tomorrow, maybe? In the morning? I have an appointment to keep right now.”
“Only if we can go ride that horse of yours,” she demanded, her pleasant face holding a challenge.
“Fine.”
“It’s a date, then,” she grinned, rising and kissing his cheek.
“So it is, luv.” He escorted her to the door. “G’bye.”
“Goodbye Paul. See you bright and early.” He mock-groaned as she waved.
***
Les Anthony, John’s driver, pulled the sedan up to the door of a large and expensive restaurant in downtown London, reserved for the most exclusive clientele. The kind of venue which John hated. “Here?” Paul asked as the driver opened the door, smartly standing to attention.
“This is the place, sir,” Anthony assured him. “Have a good evening.”
“Ta,” nodded Paul as he gingerly approached the front door, deliberately ignoring the excited sound from the valet. Skin prickling as he discreetly tried to keep his profile away from the sole photographer who had been tipped off, he ducked inside the double glass doors.
At least the maitre d’ was professionally aloof. “Mr McCartney, right this way,” he instructed after a snide glance that suggested Paul probably should have worn a tie. He was led awkwardly past rich patrons who pretended not to know him even as their teenage daughters tugged on their sleeves and pointed and practically demanded that he be brought to their table. “Right through there, sir,” his guide finally requested, referring to a gilded door with no window. It was the private ballroom, a place Paul had been only once before.
Taking a breath, he quickly slipped past the heavy door. The room was pitch black, and he fumbled around, sliding his hand along the moulding and wallpaper until he touched the light switch.
As the chandeliers glowed to life, he saw that the chairs were up on the tables. No John. What the shite? he thought, both disappointed and relieved. “Hello, anybody?”
But wait, the chairs had been removed from one table. Rushing forward, Paul snatched the single, blood red rose from its resting place, and turned his eyes to the note on the table.
“I’ve been had!” he laughed softly, reading:
Macca,
Go home.
-J
***
“Wow.”
“Mm hm.”
“I mean… god, wow.”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus, Paul… what… what got into you?” John took another shuddery breath, pushing his hair out of his eyes, soaked with sweat.
“You,” replied Paul, breathing too heavily to laugh at his own pun.
John carried on, oblivious. “I’m not even sure I’ve even heard of some of that.”
“John,” he murmured, sliding sideways off of Lennon’s chest, fluidly limp after their second round and pleasantly sticky.
“Yeah?”
“I love you but—”
A fierce, delicious kiss.
“—shut up.”
“Happy anniversary,” John grinned, pulling Paul close to him, back to chest with John’s head
fitting in the crook of Paul’s neck as though it had been designed for him.
“Thank you for dinner. And the roses, oh GOD the roses,” Paul keened, desire flaming through his veins once more as he remembered the sight of the room filled with flowers.
“That’s what did it, wasn’t it? Always struck me as a romantic, Macca. Brian complained about the expense, but I said—”
“Kiss me, please,” commanded the bassist, finding the strength to pull the rhythmist on top of him.
Surprised, “Again?”
“You’re complaining?”
“Shut up, John,” Lennon told himself, and captured his husband’s mouth once more.
Part XVII- One Year
Author: demeterqueen
Pairing: John/Paul
Words: 2248
Rating: NC-17
Summary: After his death in the future, Paul is given the gift of a second chance. Will he blow this shot at love? Will the choices he make destroy those around him?
Story Warnings: character death, timeline changes, alternate universe
Disclaimer: This is an alternate universe piece. Never happened, obviously. Real person slash.
Oh where did I, go wrong my love?
What petty crime was I found guilty of?
What better time to find a brand new day?
“George,” Paul acknowledged with a grin, unsurprised, as he sat down before the glass, comb in hand. His guest was sitting in the middle of the neatly made bed, feet bare and crossed beneath him.
“Eh… hullo Paul,” the guitarist replied, a bit breathless as his eyes roved involuntarily down the bare back and across the long expanse of creamy skin. McCartney had just returned from his long afternoon soak in the en suite bath, and was clad loosely in a hunter green towel. “Sorry ‘bout this, Lennon sent me over. I didn’t know you’d be in the bath. Does he ‘ave something special planned for tonight?” he asked rapidly.
“You could have waited downstairs,” laughed Paul. “And he’s not telling me,” he complained, pouting playfully and carefully detangling his bangs. “But he’s having Anthony pick me up at six. Hand me the blower, will ya?” He pointing to the hair dryer which was just out of reach.
George struggled to his feet, grimacing as that awful pins-and-needles sensation proclaimed the return of his circulation to his numb appendages. “Been that way for a while?” the bassist asked sympathetically just before the dryer roared to life, reeking of burnt hair even on the lowest setting.
Harrison revealed the prayer beads hidden in his free hand, indicating that he’d been meditating at least as long as Paul’s two hour immersion. “In the future, do they come up with better ones?” he shouted.
“Wait ‘til you get your hands on an ionizer!” McCartney returned over the miniature jet engine. “Less frizz, more volume!” He turned the blower off, scowling as he inspected his split ends.
“John’s right,” sniggered Geo, “you’re a bird.”
“That seems to be the general consensus, yes,” snarked the other, accepting the tease and standing, noticeably without his towel.
George’s mouth fell slack.
Making no comment, the lyricist smugly turned and opened the armoire, selecting a charcoal grey suit and a lilac coloured dress shirt. As poor Hari quickly turned around, attempting to hide the blooming blush, Paul dressed efficiently, pleased to see that the creases were still iron-crisp on this pair of trousers, which were relatively new.
“Hand me my cufflinks, will you?”
“Where do you keep them?” muttered George, trying to ignore the image of a damp and naked Paul McCartney which had seared itself in his retinas.
“Um... should be in that little cardboard box on the dresser.” McCartney slid a belt through the loops in the trousers.
Harrison stepped over the towel and selected one box among many. “This one?”
“Mm?” Paul was sitting on the bed, tugging on black socks.
“With the Christmas-y print? Holly leaves and such? Silverish?”
“Yup,” confirmed Paul, wiggling his other foot into the sock. “Silverish, you say?”
“Silveresque, like.”
“Also not a word... I think. Maybe.”
“What does it matter?”
“Principle of the thing, Georgie, old sport. Old chap. Old man. Can’t have you running rampant ‘round here, teaching my kids words that aren’t words. You’ll keep them out of Oxford!”
“Running rampant? Am I a plague then?”
“A pox upon both our houses!”
“Heh.” George snorted, and they both laughed.
“Think I need I tie?”
“Depends on the location.”
Paul shook his head. “I was hoping you’d know.”
“I am but a lowly slave,” George complained, miming shackles on his wrists. “They sent me to keep you occupied.”
“Ha! So you did know he was planning something!” the bassist accused, rummaging through the rack for the shoes that matched his belt.
“Fuck. Well, no, technically I knew Brian was planning something.”
“Well then, call Brian and find out if this is a tie-or-no-tie affair.” He threw the receiver to the telephone across to George, who caught it.
“Dial ‘im,” Geo requested, wrapping the cord around his fingers. Paul did.
On the second ring, someone picked up. “Eppy, Epper, and Epstein, Jews at Law! This is Joanie, how may I help you?” breezed John’s falsetto imitation of a secretary.
“Hey John, it’s me, George.”
“Need Brian then?” Still in that ridiculous chirpy voice.
“Um, I’ve been enlisted to find out if Paul’ll need a tie.”
John’s tone changed entirely. “Does he have you tied up with shoelaces? Has he been torturing yah with painful, continual renditions of “Yesterday”? If you need help, just say ‘rickshaw’.”
“Rickshaw?” Paul mouthed, who had been listening the whole time.
“Rickshaw?!” repeated George.
“Mal’ll be right over!” John exclaimed. “Hang on!”
Paul took the phone out of George’s hand. “Actually, it was “Michelle”, but good guess, love. Bye!” He unceremoniously dropped the phone onto the cradle. “That was a waste,” he sighed.
“There’s somebody comin’ up the drive,” Harrison noted, lifting the curtain to peer out the
open window.
“Whose car?”
“Don’t recognize it.”
Paul straightened his jacket. “Could be anybody, I guess. Since the party everybody seems to know where we live.”
“That explains the birds hanging out around the front gate.”
“Yeah, they’re good girls. Most of them used to hang ‘round the house in the city. Rosie
brings them biscuits and lemonade in the afternoons, and they walk Martha a lot.”
“May be one of ‘em now,” suggested George as the crown of a female head peaked into view.
“Driving a Jag?” Paul countered, as he got a better look at the sleek black car from the hall window. He hurried down the stairs, shouting “I’ll get it!” to Dot before the bell even rang.
He pulled open the front door, surprising his visitor. “Paul! I’m sorry, have I come at a bad time?” said the woman, taking a small step backward. She was his height, ice blonde hair cropped close to her scalp, wearing an attractive cotton print dress and white ballet flats.
“Cara,” he smiled, ushering her inside. “It’s never a bad time for you, luv. I thought I
invited you to my little soiree, but I never saw you.”
“Oh, that,” she laughed, blue eyes roving over every inch of house she could see. “Totalled my Jaguar on the way to the party. A tourist ran a red light.”
“Oh, God, were you hurt?” hissed McCartney, seating her in the parlour.
“It was the strangest thing, Paul. My poor car was utterly destroyed, but there was barely scratch on me! My dad called it a miracle.”
The bassist sighed, guiltily thinking of Jenny for just a moment. It was possible... “How is your father, Cara?” Dr Edwards was an American surgeon who had come to London during the War and had never left, choosing instead to stay and marry a pretty British nurse.
It was Cara Edwards who had arranged for Linda’s flat in the city, American enough to understand Lin’s troubles adjusting to British life. Like Linda, Cara was a photographer, but most of the time she was away in Israel, recording the conflict there to be broadcast by the BBC. She was the only female on the team, a position she held with pride.
“Well as can be expected. Sorry to have to buy me a new car so soon, perhaps,” she chuckled. “It was a birthday present, only two months old.” She glanced about the room, which was nice but rather nondescript. “You promised me a tour of your home, Paulie.”
“Did I?” he replied, feigning surprise as he caught a glimpse of George in the doorway, winking and waving goodbye. He got out a brief nod before his friend departed.
Cara didn’t notice. “Well, what I’d really like is a tour of your stables,” she confessed. “Rumour has it that you have a gorgeous brute locked in there.” She was a champion equestrian.
“Alexander— seventeen hands, black as sin and just as mean,” expounded Paul proudly.
“Fabulous! Do you ride him often?”
“Almost every day, though sometimes when I’m not in the mood for a bruising, I take my
Appaloosa. She’s better for the woods, though she’s a plains horse.”
“I’m jealous,” Cara complained with warmth in her expression. “I just can’t always make time to see mine, try as I might. Too bad St. John’s Wood doesn’t have a public stable closer by. Who tends them?”
“I had a boy— the nanny’s brother Jeremy— to look after them, but he’s recently chosen to leave our employment. Until I find someone new, I do it myself.”
“Paul McCartney mucks stalls!” she giggled. Then, sobering, she offered her condolences on the death of Miss Hale. “I read all about it in the papers. The official inquest said it was an accident?”
“Yes.”
“But the press was terrible about it, still. You’d think they’d have something better to chase—”
“—Says an elite member of their inner sanctum,” he teased.
“Inner sanctums are overrated,” she dismissed.
“When do you leave again?”
“Oh, not for ages, I’m afraid. I’ve been thinking I might like to go to Vietnam in the meantime.”
He furrowed his brow. “Why?”
She smiled. “You’re cute when you do that, you know. I like the adventure, and that people think a woman can’t do what I do.”
“You like to prove them wrong?”
“Mm hm.”
“I can live with that,” Paul murmured, knowing the feeling.
She took his hand, and he unconsciously closed his larger palm around hers. “So, no girls in your life?”
“Two, actually.”
“Heather and Mary. I saw the photos; they look like Linda.”
“More and more every day,” he agreed.
“And you and John are well?”
He started, just slightly, enough to pull away from her grasp. She smirked. “Easy, Paul. I’ve
known for a long time now. Lin told me.”
He appeared slightly hurt. “She told you?”
Cara tried to put him at ease. “I guessed. You’re not as clever as you think, McCartney. I looked at her photographs and put it together.”
“Well, fuck, Care.”
“I’d like to see the kids sometime,” she continued, ignoring him.
He nodded, caught the time on the clock, and stood. “Tomorrow, maybe? In the morning? I have an appointment to keep right now.”
“Only if we can go ride that horse of yours,” she demanded, her pleasant face holding a challenge.
“Fine.”
“It’s a date, then,” she grinned, rising and kissing his cheek.
“So it is, luv.” He escorted her to the door. “G’bye.”
“Goodbye Paul. See you bright and early.” He mock-groaned as she waved.
***
Les Anthony, John’s driver, pulled the sedan up to the door of a large and expensive restaurant in downtown London, reserved for the most exclusive clientele. The kind of venue which John hated. “Here?” Paul asked as the driver opened the door, smartly standing to attention.
“This is the place, sir,” Anthony assured him. “Have a good evening.”
“Ta,” nodded Paul as he gingerly approached the front door, deliberately ignoring the excited sound from the valet. Skin prickling as he discreetly tried to keep his profile away from the sole photographer who had been tipped off, he ducked inside the double glass doors.
At least the maitre d’ was professionally aloof. “Mr McCartney, right this way,” he instructed after a snide glance that suggested Paul probably should have worn a tie. He was led awkwardly past rich patrons who pretended not to know him even as their teenage daughters tugged on their sleeves and pointed and practically demanded that he be brought to their table. “Right through there, sir,” his guide finally requested, referring to a gilded door with no window. It was the private ballroom, a place Paul had been only once before.
Taking a breath, he quickly slipped past the heavy door. The room was pitch black, and he fumbled around, sliding his hand along the moulding and wallpaper until he touched the light switch.
As the chandeliers glowed to life, he saw that the chairs were up on the tables. No John. What the shite? he thought, both disappointed and relieved. “Hello, anybody?”
But wait, the chairs had been removed from one table. Rushing forward, Paul snatched the single, blood red rose from its resting place, and turned his eyes to the note on the table.
“I’ve been had!” he laughed softly, reading:
Macca,
Go home.
-J
***
“Wow.”
“Mm hm.”
“I mean… god, wow.”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus, Paul… what… what got into you?” John took another shuddery breath, pushing his hair out of his eyes, soaked with sweat.
“You,” replied Paul, breathing too heavily to laugh at his own pun.
John carried on, oblivious. “I’m not even sure I’ve even heard of some of that.”
“John,” he murmured, sliding sideways off of Lennon’s chest, fluidly limp after their second round and pleasantly sticky.
“Yeah?”
“I love you but—”
A fierce, delicious kiss.
“—shut up.”
“Happy anniversary,” John grinned, pulling Paul close to him, back to chest with John’s head
fitting in the crook of Paul’s neck as though it had been designed for him.
“Thank you for dinner. And the roses, oh GOD the roses,” Paul keened, desire flaming through his veins once more as he remembered the sight of the room filled with flowers.
“That’s what did it, wasn’t it? Always struck me as a romantic, Macca. Brian complained about the expense, but I said—”
“Kiss me, please,” commanded the bassist, finding the strength to pull the rhythmist on top of him.
Surprised, “Again?”
“You’re complaining?”
“Shut up, John,” Lennon told himself, and captured his husband’s mouth once more.