Fic - Sing Me A Song About Christmas Morning 2
Title: Sing Me A Song About Christmas Morning [2/8]
Chapter Title: Not A Bloody Snowflake
Author: TheAuthoress, aka blitzbebe
Pairing: John/Paul [for now, that’s all there is]
Rating: PG-13, for later most likely
Word count: 1,906
Warnings: Alternate Universe, pop culture references, swearing, mean ol’ John, bleak ideas on Christmas, mention of drug use, possible inaccurate information, board game references,
Disclaimer: I don’t claim I own anything mentioned in this fic. Not the Beatles, the musical A Christmas Carol, nor the Dickens book, A Christmas Carol. Nor do I claim this version an accurate retelling of said tale. I’m pretty sure the Beatles weren’t in his version.
Author's Note: Inspired by a musical version of A Christmas Carol I see every year, where they insert pop culture references and jokes and therein it’s different every year. This will have similar. Also, thank beatle_agent for reminding me that we’re in England! Ha, I keep mixing up the currency. PS. I don’t know if anyone else noticed, but I did indeed forget the part of Fred in the last bit. Ooops. If I can find a suitable Fred, I’ll add the part in later. PPS. If there isn’t a Mr. Best, I apologize. I’m not fixing it, and it being nearly 1 I’m not looking it up, either.
(No links for formatting's sake. If it's fucked up, I'll fix it tomorrow.)
*Crossposted to johnheartpaul*
~*~
“You’re late to bed, John.” The visitor kicked his feet, a smile plastered across his deathly pale face. His skin shone a sort of blue in the half light from the windows, and his cloths took upon a similar sheen. It was almost a constant color throughout the man’s person, save his eyes. Big, brown, and staring at John like there was no one else in the world.
John didn’t quite know what to reply. Here he had the very much dead Paul McCartney sitting on his bed, swinging his legs and making comments about punctuality at bedtime, and John didn’t know what he could really say to that.
“You’re one to talk.” He finally muttered. Paul laughed a little, but the sound was hollow, empty. Whatever joy fueled it was no longer there.
“Well, it doesn’t matter. You’re still here. I was afraid someone had shot you outside.” Paul had sort of a hollow, yet cheery tone. John went to put his shaking cup down on the bedside table. He wanted so desperately to reach out and touch Paul, to feel that warm skin under his hands one last time, but he was sure he wouldn’t feel it, and he didn’t know whether the utter disappointment was worth the risk.
Paul patted the bed, and when John sat down, he put his hand over John’s. His hand was cold - deathly so, like the chill of ten thousand Christmases spent in the cold, rock hard soil. John tried not to shiver at the touch. There was no life in that hand, no life in those cheeks… but there was something in those eyes.
“John.” Paul looked straight into John’s eyes, and it was only then that John noticed his late partner barely blinked. He found himself blinking more to compensate. “I’m here to give you a message and a warning. Good news or bad?”
“Bad.” John straightened himself, trying not to imagine those cold lips against his - even after all this time, even through death, he still loved Paul. But alas, to love a dead man was to love no one at all.
Paul got up from the bed and stood over John. His figure seemed to grow, his eyes more intense than ever. “John Winston Lennon…” His voice echoed through the house like a proper ghost’s should. Lightning hissed past the windows. “You will be visited by… am I boring you, John?!” Paul suddenly stopped himself, the illusion vanishing. John was sitting in his bed, chin in his hand, yawning a little.
“Is there any need for the dramatics, son?”
“Alright, alright. You’re going to be visited by three other spirits tonight.” Paul sighed. He rather liked the dramatics. John looked up at Paul, exasperated face saying all the words he didn’t need to. “We’re giving you a second chance, you know. You’ve got to change, John, or you’re going to be roaming Liverpool like me, making up for the shite you could care less about doing!”
“Change what?” John asked. “I’ve got all the money I want.”
“Money can’t buy happiness, John.”
“It does make misery easier to live with.” John quipped back, a grin spreading across his face.
Paul frowned. Though the response was exactly what he expected from John, he was actually hoping to skip this bit. The first spirit was going to be there soon. “John, do you see this chain?” Paul waved his arms in the air, floating a little bit in his own aggravation. John noticed for the first time that Paul was wrapped in a loop of ever clinking chair that touched the floor no matter how high he was from the ground.
“Mm. I just thought you were kinky.” John said.
“You’ll get your own if you don’t shape up.” Paul warned, wincing as a clock somewhere chimed midnight. John was going to respond, but Paul managed to shut him up with an addition to his sentence. “It’s also part belt. Misery, I tell you. Anyroad, you’re going to have three other ghosts visit you tonight, and the first one’s going to be here any minute.”
“Can’t they all come at once?” John asked.
“No, they can’t. It’s just how it works, Johnny.” Paul floated down to sit beside John on the bed. “Like how you can’t steal from the bank in Monopoly, even if you’re the banker. It’s just the rules, mate.”
John watched Paul sitting there and sighed. If Paul just wasn’t dead… He silently reached out and touched Paul’s cold fingers, wondering vaguely if he could warm them.
Honk, honk!
John nearly jumped out of his skin. Paul’s hand was no longer in his, and he missed the contact, no matter how cold and unyielding Paul’s hands were. Paul was up and moving to the window, throwing it open.
“John, say hello to the Ghost of Christmas Past.”
Outside was a car. A float car. A floating, colorfully painted Rolls Royce with a man leaning out the driver side. A man dressed much like a walking snowflake. John held back a snicker.
“You’re late.” Paul commented offhandedly. George, from the driver’s seat, sighed.
“Traffic. No air traffic over Bucking’am Palace ‘til the 26th, had to take a detour ‘round Wales just to get here.” He said, rolling his eyes a little. He then looked straight at John, appraising the man clad in pajamas. “This ‘im?”
“You know I’m right here.” John said, approaching the car. Paul already had the back door open and was climbing inside. John followed, feeling strange climbing into a car that was so far off the ground. He found himself pressed against Paul, the dead man’s arms stretching around him as he closed the door.
It was odd, being in that flying car. The seats were small and intimate, pressing him up against the cold dead man whether he wanted it or not. Paul shifted, slightly, so John could look out either window, but the way he moved hinted to John that the far left window, over Paul, would be more interesting. He leaned over, his head only a fraction of an inch from Paul’s chest. And he heard something.
Lup-tup. Lup-tup.
Slow and sluggish and deep in Paul’s chest, bouncing off ribs and organs that John assumed were all present and accounted for. A heart beat. Much too slow for life, certainly, but it was there. Paul had a heart, and that heart was beating. John quickly glanced up at Paul, mouth wide open. Paul silently turned his head toward the window. Whatever John had realized or heard or seen, the ghost thought, it could come later.
Outside the left window was very interesting. So interesting, the heartbeat actually slipped from John’s mind. Because outside the window, time was moving fast. And it was moving backwards. The sun traversed from west to east as the car made slow circles around Liverpool. John recognized landmarks, places of interest, some of them shrinking, some of them beginning to glow again after so long abandoned.
Eventually, the car landed in a backstreet, scaring a mangy cat from the alley. George hopped out, keys in hand.
Quickly, on the subject of George, I must state that George was a ghost, but not a ghost as one would think a ghost was. Spirit might be more the embodiment of the term, in actuality. He had never lived on that earth like most iconic ghosts have, like Paul had, at once. He had been there since the beginning of time. He took form on the night of the First Christmas, and had been ever since.
His clothing did indeed resemble a snowflake, but less so now that it did not clash with the brightness of the car. A robe, much like a monks, trimmed all about in silver, was all he wore. His feet were bare, and probably very cold considering the three boys were ankle deep in snow. He had a nightcap on, too, with a silver snowflake like bobble on the end. John would describe it later, upon telling the tale, as something a cat would enjoy playing with.
“Alright, le’s see ‘ere.” George pulled a small moleskin book from his person, flicking through it. “This the right date, Paul?” He showed the book to Paul, who looked at the date and nodded. John was still on his way out of the car and into the snow. Literally. When he joined them later he looked much like Santa, for he was covered in snow almost entirely. Paul brushed him off with a chuckle.
“Right this way, gents. Into the warmth.” George opened a side door tha John could have sworn wasn’t there five seconds ago and let the two in.
Inside it was warm, and kindly, and resembled John’s office, if the place could ever hold an ounce of cheer for even a moment. John remembered it being like that when it was previously owned - before it came unto him and Paul to run. It was trimmed in red and green and gold, and there was a fire in the hearth.
“Now, John. Tell me who you see.” George gestured forward, inviting John to explore.
“Well, there’s Mr. Best, and Mrs. Best!” John pointed out two figures near the wall. He turned to George. “Where are we again, son?”
George frowned and tugged on his nightcap. “Ghost of Christmas Past, remember? Just answer the bloody question.”
“Cheeky friend you got there, Macca.” John commented.
“John, answer the bloody question.” Paul sighed, shaking his head.
“Well, there’re the Best’s. Setting out something alcoholic, I assume.” John chuckled at the memory. “Ah, there’s… Pete, over there, and Stuart. Sneaking drinks, the tossers. And…” John paused. “There’s… Julia.” He took three steps in her general direction, on the edge of the throng, stopped, pointed, glanced back at Paul as though this couldn’t be real, and then ran for her.
And he ran right through her.
He went straight through to the other side, as though she were made of nothing. He stopped, turned, and reached out to touch her shoulder. His hand went transparent and slipped straight through. He swallowed thickly, pulling back his hand from his mother’s shoulder. He didn’t feel the arms around him until they were already there, holding him. Cold arms.
“Sorry John, you ran off ‘fore I could mention. We’re technically not here. They can’t see us, hear us, or touch us.” Paul held John in a comforting embrace, as much as a spirit could comfort, until the older, living man had controlled his wayward emotions.
“Should’ve said that in the first place.” John muttered, sour. He didn’t glance towards his mother, lest he be overcome with something worse. That something that already tugged at his gut and his heart, burned his throat and threatened tears.
“C’mon, John.” Paul led John back to the center of the circle, hand on his shoulder. “Keep looking. George won’t let us leave ‘til he’s sure you’ve seen what he wants you too.”
“Well… There’s you.” John pointed out Paul coming into the room. Paul, young and spritely, was breathless with enthusiasm and red with cold. He still had some baby-fat to his cheeks, and he skipped around his fellow that entered with him like a young puppy around his mother. He was still a boy, then. Still dreaming, still unbroken and unsullied. “And that’s… that’s… no. That can’t be.”
“Oh, but John, it is.”