Holding Onto the Things that Slip Through Your Fingers (6-56)
Title: “Holding on to the Things that Slip Through Your Fingers”
Author: Fingersfallingupwards
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: McLennon (John/Paul)
Warnings: PG-13 (for now . . .) SLASH!
Summary: *Timetravel* Aging changes anyone’s point of view. It makes them realize their selfishness as a youth. Paul is given a chance to rewrite his story, and he promises things will be better for all of them. Along the way, he discovers things that perhaps he hadn’t known before . . . TIMETRAVEL! McLennon!
Author notes: This is the story I always wanted to read. Honestly, it’s the piece I’m most proud of.
Much love to mollybeakers and beagleagent for beta-ing!
Previous chapters are HERE
Phase Six, in which Paul encourages and gets encouraged.
*
The sea was swirling around. The ocean was heedless of anything and everything in the world around it. It would continue to push and pull no matter what. Watching the phenomena, Paul could appreciate the consistency.
The glass of the window was icy to the touch, but he ignored the feeling, relishing the long blue view, matted with clouds. The uncomfortable sensation was welcome. It was the important pinch that reminded him that he wasn’t dreaming. It reaffirmed the impossible truth that he was on his way home.
Home to people long dead and moved on. Home to places changed and unrecognizable. The home he was returning to hadn’t existed in decades and realizing that fact was one of the most surreal experiences in his very long life. Tripping on acid had nothing on what was about to happen.
Thinking about it made his breathing hitch, and despite the fact he’d been here for half a month, he was still worried that it would all disappear. He held on to the things that felt real, things like hunger and pain when he stubbed his toe, things like laughter and conversations he’d never had with his friends before, things like the warmth of bodies that were supposed to be cold, things that were tangible, things that didn’t happen in dreams.
Returning home would be the final stroke, the point where there would be no doubt he was back. It would be impossible to be living in his hometown that hadn’t been his hometown for decades and deny the fact he was really there.
Familiar lyrics John had not yet written kept flowing through his mind.
“-Though some have changed. Some forever not for better Some have gone and some remain-”
Even just the realization that he was sitting a few seats away from the person who was supposed to be dead, and knowing that he would write a song that wasn’t even a vague notion in his head, yet a song currently playing in Paul’s mind, not that John knew that Paul knew, no one knew that he knew what he knew-
The time traveler pulled his suddenly throbbing forehead into his hands. Things were so entirely bizarre; he didn’t know how to handle it really. The fact that things were so- so normal, so natural feeling, as though he hadn’t come from a different time at all, was entirely disconcerting. It messed with his mind and he felt like he was liable to float away in the unreality of the situation.
He was aware of the spiraling quality of his thoughts. There wasn’t anything he could accomplish by continuing to think on this path. He needed to focus, to save his friends.
His determined thoughts were motivating, but they did not dampen the anxious feelings mixing around within him.
The soft pattering of his drumming fingers did little to ease him either, and he started to nervously hum. Anything to distract himself. Music had always been his solace, but even that wasn’t enough to distract from what was going on.
“You alright?” The question came from George, who was sitting in the aisle next to Paul. The guitarist’s volume was lower than usual because John was having a kip a few rows ahead of them and neither of them particularly wanted to wake the man. Ringo was also dozing, having drifted off while reading. The book still loosely held in his hands.
Paul had been too anxious to even entertain the thought of resting, and George always had a bit of difficulty sleeping on planes. It didn’t seem to matter how many times they travelled on a plane, George remained a little uneasy, even past this and into the future. Proof of that was the familiar smoldering cigarette in his hands. Paul tried to suck in a deep breath to calm himself down, though that proved to be very counterproductive, as the tempting smell assaulted him.
It didn’t affect him nearly as badly as it had during the first couple weeks. The actual nicotine had seemed to finally have filtered through his system. His body still associated feelings of release and calm with the smell of cigarettes, so he still felt a bit of strain of being around it, but it was certainly more manageable. He’d even managed to get past his insomnia, which was so relieving Paul wanted to cry. The constant feelings of tiredness had dogged him for days, leaving him lagging and lackluster. Though he was able to find some respite via John’s stubbornness that night in Toronto, having a steady sleeping schedule took immense weight off of his shoulders and he could even start to relax a little.
Well, when he wasn’t fretting about things, like he was now.
“Yeah, just a bit excited to get back.” Paul spoke absently, his gaze falling back to the depthless ocean. “It feels like years since I’ve been home.”
“I know what you mean, mate,” George nodded in agreement, though it made Paul want to laugh. George had no clue. His younger friend continued though, “America is great and all, -especially California. That place must get all the sunlight England doesn’t.” The guitarist smiled, and Paul chuckled softly before the younger man continued. “But I still prefer rainy old England any day.”
Paul understood. It wasn’t about which place had a better climate, or more buildings to see and things to do, it was just home. It was the place people were waiting for them, and where they always returned to for respite.
“I do too. Liverpool is a pretty decent place. Once you get past all the weather of course.”
George grinned, “And how boring it was.”
“Don’t forget the fans,” Paul referenced the very intense fans that would stake out their homes.
“I don’t think I could if I tried mate,” a giggle bubbled, “and I do try. I really, really do.”
Now they were laughing freely.
“Shaddup ya fucking tossers!” John yelled across the plane, raising his head enough to throw one of the plane’s magazines at them. The shiny pages held together well and it flew clean through the air, like a Frisbee. The altitude dragged and it missed George and Paul. It did manage to hit George’s tray table, sending his drink into his lap along with his snack, which was now a very bruised green apple. The papers and magazines spiraled off of the tray to the floor in a white storm.
“Steady on!” George shouted back, grumpily. If he was expecting an apology, he was mistaken, because all he received was an angry, “Fuck off,” and an unhappy snort from John before the older man turned over and began to doze again.
“Git,” Paul muttered as he tossed his friend the blanket he wasn’t using to help dry him dry off, “Here.”
George snatched it out of the air gratefully, though he cast a dark look in John’s direction.
“Ta,” The guitarist grumbled as he rose to clean himself better. Once he was on his feet, he was stepping all over the dropped papers, which had thankfully remained pretty dry.
“Oh, careful mate,” Paul said, pushing his tray up and squatting to pick up the papers. He really hadn’t meant to look at any of them but the large black spots of scratched out words automatically drew his eyes. He blinked as they were promptly snatched out of his hands. Glancing up, he saw George’s flustered expression as the younger man tried to ignore his overreaction.
“Writing a song?” Paul asked, recognizing the tell-tale signs. He rose too and was trying to tilt his head to take another glance at the words. George was careful to keep them out of Paul’s vision, and it made Paul frown a little.
“Just a little something I’m working on, nothing wrong with that,” George said, the defensive tone sneaking into his voice. Paul paused, wondering if perhaps he sounded aggressive. Backpedalling, he gave a warm smile, trying to ease his friend out of his sudden fit of wariness.
“No, not at all.” The grin seemed to disarm George a little, but his grip was still firm on the papers.
“Can I take a peek?”
The unwillingness in George’s face was crystal clear. There was also, Paul noticed, some slight signs of embarrassment.
“Nah, they aren’t finished yet,” George shied away.
Paul didn’t understand. It wasn’t like he was going to make fun of him or anything, besides, what did George have to be embarrassed about? George was a fine song-writer and -
‘Ah,’ he thought as he recalled the way things stood at this point.
Paul remembered, this was a time which as John had so bluntly put, where George simply wasn’t coming up with any good stuff. Though it was a rather unkind thing to say, he himself had certainly agreed with that view at the time.
As he looked back, he knew that the ‘brilliant’ stuff he and John wrote wasn’t nearly as brilliant as they thought. They were all still growing, both as people and as song-writers. George was certainly at that stage.
He had yet to blossom into the fantastic writer he would later become. The eloquence of his songs easily rivaled those of the famous Lennon-McCartney sort. The fact that George had grown so much from a simple point like this brought a fond, and almost proud, smile to his face. George had become more than anyone ever imagined, and he did it himself. The fact he composed by himself, without anyone else helping him had really impressed Paul when he was younger. Of course, the happiness he felt for his friend was tainted with the memories of self-involvement Paul displayed. He shut his eyes. Words from decades ago, and yet, potentially years in the future, echoed in his head.
“-Maybe after another ten McCartney projects there might be time to record my stuff I suppose. I wouldn’t want to jump to any unrealistic conclusions because-“
George had created himself. All by himself he had learned and grown and become a true contender with John and Paul’s writing. But Paul shook his head and opened his eyes.
It didn’t matter who wrote the best lyrics and most complex songs, all that mattered was the music and the small group of friends who would come together to make it. Paul knew what was important now.
George had turned out brilliantly, though Paul knew he had struggled all the while.
Maybe this time, George wouldn’t have to do it all alone.
“Don’t you just hate it when you get blocked on a song? It’s bloody frustrating!” Paul began. George seemed a little startled and it might have been because Paul was discussing this with him, or it could have been because Paul was still and silent for a few moments as he pondered George and suddenly began again in a strange topic.
“Er, yeah,” He replied, off balance.
“It drives me mad, cuz’ it’s all up here, it just refuses to come out the way you want it to.” Paul was rewarded when George nodded in agreement fervently.
“That’s it exactly! I know what I want in me head but I can’t get it out right.”
“Happens to me all the time. That’s usually when I drag John off his lazy arse to come help me think of new ideas,” Paul cast a look to their friend, who wasn’t in their good books currently. George said nothing, his expression unreadable. Paul proceeded very carefully.
“If you want, I could maybe help you a bit,” Paul said slowly, “It’s hard writing songs, especially without another ear to bounce things off of.”
George looked rather stunned at the offer. Paul tried to appear as earnest as he felt. His gut dropped some, when a cold and weary look began to take over his friend’s face.
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you and John right now, but keep me out of it. I don’t want to be in the middle of one of your petty arguments,” George seemed to be both hurt and irked, and that upset Paul.
“George! I’m not trying to do this play to some game between John and meself. I just wanna help out my friend.” Paul felt entirely dismayed. Clearly, the actual situation was worse than Paul ever realized if George assumed that Paul asking to help him out was simply because of a little fit between him and John.
Paul had always been aware of the small world that John and he had built within the group, always a little apart from the others in the manner of song-writing. He hadn’t realized how exclusionary they had really been until this moment. It was so easy to get wrapped up within themselves and their own projects and works. When they did that though, they didn’t want to work on anything else, didn’t want to hear anything else. Which was not okay.
George seemed to realize the objection of his friend seemed genuine and he scratched his head.
“Sorry mate, it’s just, you haven’t been so keen on stuff like this in a while is all.” George said honestly.
The bassist winced visibly. “It’s never too late to start though,” Paul replied with a weak and apologetic smile. His oldest friend scanned him for a long time, trying to peer back behind the hazel iris’s to see what really lay below in Paul’s mind.
“Er, I suppose if you wanted to help me, that would be alright,” George mumbled it, almost looking uncomfortable, and yet excited in a way.
“Great! We can start now if you want. I dunno about you, but I don’t think I’ll be getting any sleep tonight,” Paul admitted and George allowed a tentative smile to spread but it was genuine and pure. It reminded Paul of the boy he knew in secondary.
“Yeah, I don’t think I will either, I’m too awake now,” He gestured to his lap where the cold drink had spilled. It was dryer, but the shock of water had jolted him out of any weariness he might have otherwise felt.
“Well, maybe we could do something about that later,” Paul smirked, before he gestured eagerly to George’s papers and moved over the aisle to sit next to him. “For now, let’s take a look, shall we?”
There was the same tentative excitement as before, and found that he returned the sentiment.
As he had expected, George’s writing was pretty rough around the edges. Most of the stuff from their earlier years was. Rubber Soul had been the major turning point in John and Paul’s song-writing especially, but George blossomed later. His glory had been in The Beatles, Abbey Road and Let It Be.
Paul felt a little hesitant about helping George song-write, because that would changetheir track-list for the album. Then again, George had some songs on there so this would just be helping him improve them. They wouldn’t be too different, so it wouldn’t mess with the timeline too badly. Paul hoped so at least.
Neither wanted to wake their band-mates, so they settled on humming to communicate their musical messages to each other instead of pulling out a guitar, which was the more desirable option. Paul tried to keep himself from taking over George’s songs too much, but found it hard. He had so many ideas he wanted to implement that would make it so much better! Remembering the effect his behavior had in the past timeline, where he had been more aggressive musically and controlling of the songs, he was able to reign in his natural reactions and keep his input minimal. Whenever George got stuck, he would offer a nudge in the right direction and a few suggestions. This was about helping George improve, and he did his best to keep that in mind.
It was invigorating to work with his oldest friend on music. George was inventive, and he was right before when he said he had the right ideas, he was just having difficulty translating. Paul helped where he could and soon enough they had the makings of a pretty good song. Whether it would sound as good on their instruments, they would have to wait to see.
Paul felt ashamed he never took the chance to help before. At least now he could take part, and aid his friend as he paved his way. It would be a miraculous trip and that was certain.
*
**
“You ready?”
“Probably not, but let’s do it anyways.”
“Fair enough. Together on the count of three.”
“Right.”
“One, two, THREE!”
Paul and George took more pleasure than probably was appropriate as they watched John sputter and gasp as he was rudely awakened by a wave of chilled water. The two were laughing loudly at their friend’s predicament.
“Bloody hell!” John finally stood up and got his bearings. His eyes were red and he looked vaguely like a bull. His eyes narrowed as he spotted George and Paul giggling, each with an empty glass in his hand.
“Just wanted to tell you our flight landed,” Paul barely managed to say it he was laughing so hard. John made quite the sight with his drenched hair and clothes.
“You fucking wankers!” John shot out a hand to grab George, but the younger man easily evaded his reach. A growl escaped John’s throat and he moved to chase. Ringo was stirring now, the racket waking him up.
“Whasgoin’ on?” He asked, sleepily. He blinked a few times as he watched George and a very wet John dance around each other as John tried to get at the skinny man. Pausing, the drummer took a moment to pinch himself. No, it was really happening.
Paul watched with blatant amusement as they circled each other. Though there was something off about John, his reach was always a little skewed, and he seemed unstable in his steps. A lightbulb went off, and he realized.
“John, are you wearing your-“
Said man tripped on the corner of a seat and fell gracelessly to the ground.
“-glasses . . . ?” Paul trailed off.
“I guess that answers that,” Ringo commented from the side. When John didn’t stir, the remaining three approached their fallen comrade.
“You okay John?” Paul asked tentatively.
“You’re all fucking bastards,” John spoke to the ground, his voice severely muffled. He carefully pulled himself up and grasped his head. The others watched him with concern until he cuffed George and Paul over the head with no real gentleness. It was pretty safe to bet he was okay.
“Are you boys ready to go?” Brian asked as he pulled the curtain back. When he saw them all on the floor together, John still sopping and three out of the four rubbing their heads in pain, he let out a sigh. “Do I want to know what happened back here?”
“You make us seem like rambunctious kids, always up to no good. We’re adults, you know,” Ringo informed him.
The skeptical eyebrow was marked with mirth and their manager shook his head fondly.
“We made it through the tour my boys,” Brian began, looking proudly at the young men.
“I honestly didn’t think we would at times,” George put in from the side.
“I just wanted to say that I am very proud of you all and that you did very good work this past few weeks. Of course, sans those few minor road-bumps.” Here, Brian gave John a very distinctive look, but the other man was oblivious, being very nearsighted without his glasses or contacts in.
“Enjoy your break. I will be in touch in about two weeks. John and Paul, I expect you to have written the next album by the time we go back to the studio,” He informed them, in a stern, yet not unkind tone.
“Will do, Eppy,” Paul said in a falsely chipper voice as their manager gave them a parting smile and stepped off the plane.
Now that they had finally landed, energy suddenly seemed to appear in them and an eagerness to be back in their homes where they could sleep off the jet lag.
For Paul though, it brought back the reality he was about to face. Writing with George had been a very calming and messing around with John had been quite distracting. Now there was nothing though. Just him, and the world with people waiting for him outside the plane. Ringo and George quickly gathered their stuff and headed off, eager to greet their return party. Paul was hesitant.
He stared at the opening with a measure of fear and desire.
“Are you going to go, or just stare at it the whole day?” John asked from the side. He had taken the time to put his uncomfortable contacts in and dry off some. He was only just getting his stuff ready now.
Instead of a retort of any kind, Paul just turned to him with an openly unsure face tinged with worry.
“What’s the matter? Worried Jane gained weight while you were away?” John asked, trying to ease his friend.
“It just-“ Paul broke off, not even knowing how he could describe the feelings clashing against each other within him.
“Oi,” John nudged him gently with his shoulder. He met his gaze, conveying confidence.
Paul had always appreciated John’s ability to help without having to pry too much into Paul’s problems.
“Shall we?” John bowed and held out his hand, as though he was escorting a fine lady of the English court in Victorian days.
“Together?” Paul asked, needing to have John beside him to anchor him.
“I shan’t have it any other way, milady,” John proceeded to flutter his eyelashes. Paul gave a soft smile.
“Alright.”
Side-by-side, they exited the airplane, into the bright sunlit runway. Paul was startled, not by the brightness, but by the roar of the fans who had arrived to greet them back. He had forgotten how they used to do that. People simply didn’t gather in large masses at airports just to see a band they liked arrive in the future. He gave a little wave and a smile. The group responded with screams.
Though a window, they spotted thier families and friends gathered in one of the private arrival rooms of the airport. John and Paul hurried over, urged by the shouts and hollers. Once inside, the door was shut, blocking out the loud noises. Cynthia quickly approached John, and glancing around, Paul saw Ringo and George were already meeting and talking with their own friends and families. A flash of red hair caught Paul’s eye and he let a smile spread.
“Jane,” He greeted her. She leant up on her toes and gave him a fond hug and a long kiss.
“Paul! I’m so glad you’re back. How was America?” She asked inquisitively as she pulled back.
“Sunny.” He spent a few moments just looking at her. Jane really was a beautiful girl.
“I can tell that much; you’re brown as a nut.” The actress tapped a fingernail against his tanner than usual forearm. Over her shoulder, he spied the Harrison group, which included George's girlfriend, Pattie and his mum.
The sight of George’s mother made Paul grin in nostalgia. She nit-picked over George in a way only a mother could. Paul felt a little pang. To this day, he still missed his own mum. He knew George missed his mother immensely after she passed. No child ever really got over the loss of a parent, they were irreplaceable and-
“Paul!” The voice was male, and it rang from behind.
Paul froze visibly. His mind was desperately trying to catch up to a truth he just realized in his heart. Slowly, like the unthawing of a statue, he turned around.
He knew -even without turning around- he knew who it was.
“Da,” The word was uttered feebly. Water began to prick at his eyes as the image of his father filled his gaze. In a flash, he ran over to the man grabbing his frame in a tight embrace. Paul clung to his father’s neck like a dying man. He was alive. He was really, really alive.
“Paul? Paulie? What’s the matter?” His dad asked, evident concern littered his tone.
Paul was beyond words, the same, unbelievably true fact that his father was still here, within his reach, stole any breath he had away.
“What’s gotten into our kid?” Jim asked, looking to Jane and the remainder of the band.
“I’ve never seen him like this before,” Jane replied, her face white. The older man’s sharp gaze quickly flicked to the men.
“Haven’t the foggiest. He’s been doing this for a while now though,” George offered awkwardly.
“Doing what?” Jim demanded.
“The hugging thing, though we kind of assumed it had died out,” Ringo commented.
“It’s okay, what’s going on, Paulie?” The oldest McCartney asked, turning back to his distressed son.
All Paul could manage was a shaky, “I just missed you so much,” before he started crying again.
“I haven’t gone anywhere. I know it was a long trip, and I’m glad you missed me, but it’s nothing to cry about. I’m right here,” Jim tried to soothe, patting his son’s back. It was a little frightening for Jim to see his oldest son behaving like this. The last time he had seen Paul break down like this was when Mary had died. He couldn’t think of anything else that could upset his son so much. There was a fair amount of time until the anniversary of her death, so he doubted that Mary McCartney was a source of Paul’s tears.
Watching from the side, especially quiet, was John. Paul had said the exact same things when he had seen John that day. The older man couldn’t help but wonder what exactly it meant. There was something going on in Paul’s mind, something John couldn’t even grasp. Watching his friend sob, there was one thing he did understand.
Paul was crying from pure, undiluted joy.
Knowing this really didn’t clear anything up.
Finally pulling himself together a bit, Paul pulled himself up and wiped at his eyes. He met the eyes of the onlookers with an embarrassed and watery smile. He couldn’t find it within himself to really feel too awkward, because in this moment, he had his father back, and that was a feeling that swept anything ill away.
“It’s good to be back,” Paul stated. And now he beamed at them, cheerfully. All the tears were wiped away and the trails were quickly drying in the sun.
*
**
***
AN:So . . . how are we liking things with Georgie?
Also, I HAVE THE NEXT TWO CHAPTERS WRITTEN! Yay me! I just need to do a final edit and I will have them out. You'll hear from me probably within the week.
Next chapters are HERE
Shoutout to the lurkers! You know who you are my anonymous dears~
Author: Fingersfallingupwards
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: McLennon (John/Paul)
Warnings: PG-13 (for now . . .) SLASH!
Summary: *Timetravel* Aging changes anyone’s point of view. It makes them realize their selfishness as a youth. Paul is given a chance to rewrite his story, and he promises things will be better for all of them. Along the way, he discovers things that perhaps he hadn’t known before . . . TIMETRAVEL! McLennon!
Author notes: This is the story I always wanted to read. Honestly, it’s the piece I’m most proud of.
Much love to mollybeakers and beagleagent for beta-ing!
Previous chapters are HERE
Phase Six, in which Paul encourages and gets encouraged.
*
The sea was swirling around. The ocean was heedless of anything and everything in the world around it. It would continue to push and pull no matter what. Watching the phenomena, Paul could appreciate the consistency.
The glass of the window was icy to the touch, but he ignored the feeling, relishing the long blue view, matted with clouds. The uncomfortable sensation was welcome. It was the important pinch that reminded him that he wasn’t dreaming. It reaffirmed the impossible truth that he was on his way home.
Home to people long dead and moved on. Home to places changed and unrecognizable. The home he was returning to hadn’t existed in decades and realizing that fact was one of the most surreal experiences in his very long life. Tripping on acid had nothing on what was about to happen.
Thinking about it made his breathing hitch, and despite the fact he’d been here for half a month, he was still worried that it would all disappear. He held on to the things that felt real, things like hunger and pain when he stubbed his toe, things like laughter and conversations he’d never had with his friends before, things like the warmth of bodies that were supposed to be cold, things that were tangible, things that didn’t happen in dreams.
Returning home would be the final stroke, the point where there would be no doubt he was back. It would be impossible to be living in his hometown that hadn’t been his hometown for decades and deny the fact he was really there.
Familiar lyrics John had not yet written kept flowing through his mind.
“-Though some have changed. Some forever not for better Some have gone and some remain-”
Even just the realization that he was sitting a few seats away from the person who was supposed to be dead, and knowing that he would write a song that wasn’t even a vague notion in his head, yet a song currently playing in Paul’s mind, not that John knew that Paul knew, no one knew that he knew what he knew-
The time traveler pulled his suddenly throbbing forehead into his hands. Things were so entirely bizarre; he didn’t know how to handle it really. The fact that things were so- so normal, so natural feeling, as though he hadn’t come from a different time at all, was entirely disconcerting. It messed with his mind and he felt like he was liable to float away in the unreality of the situation.
He was aware of the spiraling quality of his thoughts. There wasn’t anything he could accomplish by continuing to think on this path. He needed to focus, to save his friends.
His determined thoughts were motivating, but they did not dampen the anxious feelings mixing around within him.
The soft pattering of his drumming fingers did little to ease him either, and he started to nervously hum. Anything to distract himself. Music had always been his solace, but even that wasn’t enough to distract from what was going on.
“You alright?” The question came from George, who was sitting in the aisle next to Paul. The guitarist’s volume was lower than usual because John was having a kip a few rows ahead of them and neither of them particularly wanted to wake the man. Ringo was also dozing, having drifted off while reading. The book still loosely held in his hands.
Paul had been too anxious to even entertain the thought of resting, and George always had a bit of difficulty sleeping on planes. It didn’t seem to matter how many times they travelled on a plane, George remained a little uneasy, even past this and into the future. Proof of that was the familiar smoldering cigarette in his hands. Paul tried to suck in a deep breath to calm himself down, though that proved to be very counterproductive, as the tempting smell assaulted him.
It didn’t affect him nearly as badly as it had during the first couple weeks. The actual nicotine had seemed to finally have filtered through his system. His body still associated feelings of release and calm with the smell of cigarettes, so he still felt a bit of strain of being around it, but it was certainly more manageable. He’d even managed to get past his insomnia, which was so relieving Paul wanted to cry. The constant feelings of tiredness had dogged him for days, leaving him lagging and lackluster. Though he was able to find some respite via John’s stubbornness that night in Toronto, having a steady sleeping schedule took immense weight off of his shoulders and he could even start to relax a little.
Well, when he wasn’t fretting about things, like he was now.
“Yeah, just a bit excited to get back.” Paul spoke absently, his gaze falling back to the depthless ocean. “It feels like years since I’ve been home.”
“I know what you mean, mate,” George nodded in agreement, though it made Paul want to laugh. George had no clue. His younger friend continued though, “America is great and all, -especially California. That place must get all the sunlight England doesn’t.” The guitarist smiled, and Paul chuckled softly before the younger man continued. “But I still prefer rainy old England any day.”
Paul understood. It wasn’t about which place had a better climate, or more buildings to see and things to do, it was just home. It was the place people were waiting for them, and where they always returned to for respite.
“I do too. Liverpool is a pretty decent place. Once you get past all the weather of course.”
George grinned, “And how boring it was.”
“Don’t forget the fans,” Paul referenced the very intense fans that would stake out their homes.
“I don’t think I could if I tried mate,” a giggle bubbled, “and I do try. I really, really do.”
Now they were laughing freely.
“Shaddup ya fucking tossers!” John yelled across the plane, raising his head enough to throw one of the plane’s magazines at them. The shiny pages held together well and it flew clean through the air, like a Frisbee. The altitude dragged and it missed George and Paul. It did manage to hit George’s tray table, sending his drink into his lap along with his snack, which was now a very bruised green apple. The papers and magazines spiraled off of the tray to the floor in a white storm.
“Steady on!” George shouted back, grumpily. If he was expecting an apology, he was mistaken, because all he received was an angry, “Fuck off,” and an unhappy snort from John before the older man turned over and began to doze again.
“Git,” Paul muttered as he tossed his friend the blanket he wasn’t using to help dry him dry off, “Here.”
George snatched it out of the air gratefully, though he cast a dark look in John’s direction.
“Ta,” The guitarist grumbled as he rose to clean himself better. Once he was on his feet, he was stepping all over the dropped papers, which had thankfully remained pretty dry.
“Oh, careful mate,” Paul said, pushing his tray up and squatting to pick up the papers. He really hadn’t meant to look at any of them but the large black spots of scratched out words automatically drew his eyes. He blinked as they were promptly snatched out of his hands. Glancing up, he saw George’s flustered expression as the younger man tried to ignore his overreaction.
“Writing a song?” Paul asked, recognizing the tell-tale signs. He rose too and was trying to tilt his head to take another glance at the words. George was careful to keep them out of Paul’s vision, and it made Paul frown a little.
“Just a little something I’m working on, nothing wrong with that,” George said, the defensive tone sneaking into his voice. Paul paused, wondering if perhaps he sounded aggressive. Backpedalling, he gave a warm smile, trying to ease his friend out of his sudden fit of wariness.
“No, not at all.” The grin seemed to disarm George a little, but his grip was still firm on the papers.
“Can I take a peek?”
The unwillingness in George’s face was crystal clear. There was also, Paul noticed, some slight signs of embarrassment.
“Nah, they aren’t finished yet,” George shied away.
Paul didn’t understand. It wasn’t like he was going to make fun of him or anything, besides, what did George have to be embarrassed about? George was a fine song-writer and -
‘Ah,’ he thought as he recalled the way things stood at this point.
Paul remembered, this was a time which as John had so bluntly put, where George simply wasn’t coming up with any good stuff. Though it was a rather unkind thing to say, he himself had certainly agreed with that view at the time.
As he looked back, he knew that the ‘brilliant’ stuff he and John wrote wasn’t nearly as brilliant as they thought. They were all still growing, both as people and as song-writers. George was certainly at that stage.
He had yet to blossom into the fantastic writer he would later become. The eloquence of his songs easily rivaled those of the famous Lennon-McCartney sort. The fact that George had grown so much from a simple point like this brought a fond, and almost proud, smile to his face. George had become more than anyone ever imagined, and he did it himself. The fact he composed by himself, without anyone else helping him had really impressed Paul when he was younger. Of course, the happiness he felt for his friend was tainted with the memories of self-involvement Paul displayed. He shut his eyes. Words from decades ago, and yet, potentially years in the future, echoed in his head.
“-Maybe after another ten McCartney projects there might be time to record my stuff I suppose. I wouldn’t want to jump to any unrealistic conclusions because-“
George had created himself. All by himself he had learned and grown and become a true contender with John and Paul’s writing. But Paul shook his head and opened his eyes.
It didn’t matter who wrote the best lyrics and most complex songs, all that mattered was the music and the small group of friends who would come together to make it. Paul knew what was important now.
George had turned out brilliantly, though Paul knew he had struggled all the while.
Maybe this time, George wouldn’t have to do it all alone.
“Don’t you just hate it when you get blocked on a song? It’s bloody frustrating!” Paul began. George seemed a little startled and it might have been because Paul was discussing this with him, or it could have been because Paul was still and silent for a few moments as he pondered George and suddenly began again in a strange topic.
“Er, yeah,” He replied, off balance.
“It drives me mad, cuz’ it’s all up here, it just refuses to come out the way you want it to.” Paul was rewarded when George nodded in agreement fervently.
“That’s it exactly! I know what I want in me head but I can’t get it out right.”
“Happens to me all the time. That’s usually when I drag John off his lazy arse to come help me think of new ideas,” Paul cast a look to their friend, who wasn’t in their good books currently. George said nothing, his expression unreadable. Paul proceeded very carefully.
“If you want, I could maybe help you a bit,” Paul said slowly, “It’s hard writing songs, especially without another ear to bounce things off of.”
George looked rather stunned at the offer. Paul tried to appear as earnest as he felt. His gut dropped some, when a cold and weary look began to take over his friend’s face.
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you and John right now, but keep me out of it. I don’t want to be in the middle of one of your petty arguments,” George seemed to be both hurt and irked, and that upset Paul.
“George! I’m not trying to do this play to some game between John and meself. I just wanna help out my friend.” Paul felt entirely dismayed. Clearly, the actual situation was worse than Paul ever realized if George assumed that Paul asking to help him out was simply because of a little fit between him and John.
Paul had always been aware of the small world that John and he had built within the group, always a little apart from the others in the manner of song-writing. He hadn’t realized how exclusionary they had really been until this moment. It was so easy to get wrapped up within themselves and their own projects and works. When they did that though, they didn’t want to work on anything else, didn’t want to hear anything else. Which was not okay.
George seemed to realize the objection of his friend seemed genuine and he scratched his head.
“Sorry mate, it’s just, you haven’t been so keen on stuff like this in a while is all.” George said honestly.
The bassist winced visibly. “It’s never too late to start though,” Paul replied with a weak and apologetic smile. His oldest friend scanned him for a long time, trying to peer back behind the hazel iris’s to see what really lay below in Paul’s mind.
“Er, I suppose if you wanted to help me, that would be alright,” George mumbled it, almost looking uncomfortable, and yet excited in a way.
“Great! We can start now if you want. I dunno about you, but I don’t think I’ll be getting any sleep tonight,” Paul admitted and George allowed a tentative smile to spread but it was genuine and pure. It reminded Paul of the boy he knew in secondary.
“Yeah, I don’t think I will either, I’m too awake now,” He gestured to his lap where the cold drink had spilled. It was dryer, but the shock of water had jolted him out of any weariness he might have otherwise felt.
“Well, maybe we could do something about that later,” Paul smirked, before he gestured eagerly to George’s papers and moved over the aisle to sit next to him. “For now, let’s take a look, shall we?”
There was the same tentative excitement as before, and found that he returned the sentiment.
As he had expected, George’s writing was pretty rough around the edges. Most of the stuff from their earlier years was. Rubber Soul had been the major turning point in John and Paul’s song-writing especially, but George blossomed later. His glory had been in The Beatles, Abbey Road and Let It Be.
Paul felt a little hesitant about helping George song-write, because that would changetheir track-list for the album. Then again, George had some songs on there so this would just be helping him improve them. They wouldn’t be too different, so it wouldn’t mess with the timeline too badly. Paul hoped so at least.
Neither wanted to wake their band-mates, so they settled on humming to communicate their musical messages to each other instead of pulling out a guitar, which was the more desirable option. Paul tried to keep himself from taking over George’s songs too much, but found it hard. He had so many ideas he wanted to implement that would make it so much better! Remembering the effect his behavior had in the past timeline, where he had been more aggressive musically and controlling of the songs, he was able to reign in his natural reactions and keep his input minimal. Whenever George got stuck, he would offer a nudge in the right direction and a few suggestions. This was about helping George improve, and he did his best to keep that in mind.
It was invigorating to work with his oldest friend on music. George was inventive, and he was right before when he said he had the right ideas, he was just having difficulty translating. Paul helped where he could and soon enough they had the makings of a pretty good song. Whether it would sound as good on their instruments, they would have to wait to see.
Paul felt ashamed he never took the chance to help before. At least now he could take part, and aid his friend as he paved his way. It would be a miraculous trip and that was certain.
*
**
“You ready?”
“Probably not, but let’s do it anyways.”
“Fair enough. Together on the count of three.”
“Right.”
“One, two, THREE!”
Paul and George took more pleasure than probably was appropriate as they watched John sputter and gasp as he was rudely awakened by a wave of chilled water. The two were laughing loudly at their friend’s predicament.
“Bloody hell!” John finally stood up and got his bearings. His eyes were red and he looked vaguely like a bull. His eyes narrowed as he spotted George and Paul giggling, each with an empty glass in his hand.
“Just wanted to tell you our flight landed,” Paul barely managed to say it he was laughing so hard. John made quite the sight with his drenched hair and clothes.
“You fucking wankers!” John shot out a hand to grab George, but the younger man easily evaded his reach. A growl escaped John’s throat and he moved to chase. Ringo was stirring now, the racket waking him up.
“Whasgoin’ on?” He asked, sleepily. He blinked a few times as he watched George and a very wet John dance around each other as John tried to get at the skinny man. Pausing, the drummer took a moment to pinch himself. No, it was really happening.
Paul watched with blatant amusement as they circled each other. Though there was something off about John, his reach was always a little skewed, and he seemed unstable in his steps. A lightbulb went off, and he realized.
“John, are you wearing your-“
Said man tripped on the corner of a seat and fell gracelessly to the ground.
“-glasses . . . ?” Paul trailed off.
“I guess that answers that,” Ringo commented from the side. When John didn’t stir, the remaining three approached their fallen comrade.
“You okay John?” Paul asked tentatively.
“You’re all fucking bastards,” John spoke to the ground, his voice severely muffled. He carefully pulled himself up and grasped his head. The others watched him with concern until he cuffed George and Paul over the head with no real gentleness. It was pretty safe to bet he was okay.
“Are you boys ready to go?” Brian asked as he pulled the curtain back. When he saw them all on the floor together, John still sopping and three out of the four rubbing their heads in pain, he let out a sigh. “Do I want to know what happened back here?”
“You make us seem like rambunctious kids, always up to no good. We’re adults, you know,” Ringo informed him.
The skeptical eyebrow was marked with mirth and their manager shook his head fondly.
“We made it through the tour my boys,” Brian began, looking proudly at the young men.
“I honestly didn’t think we would at times,” George put in from the side.
“I just wanted to say that I am very proud of you all and that you did very good work this past few weeks. Of course, sans those few minor road-bumps.” Here, Brian gave John a very distinctive look, but the other man was oblivious, being very nearsighted without his glasses or contacts in.
“Enjoy your break. I will be in touch in about two weeks. John and Paul, I expect you to have written the next album by the time we go back to the studio,” He informed them, in a stern, yet not unkind tone.
“Will do, Eppy,” Paul said in a falsely chipper voice as their manager gave them a parting smile and stepped off the plane.
Now that they had finally landed, energy suddenly seemed to appear in them and an eagerness to be back in their homes where they could sleep off the jet lag.
For Paul though, it brought back the reality he was about to face. Writing with George had been a very calming and messing around with John had been quite distracting. Now there was nothing though. Just him, and the world with people waiting for him outside the plane. Ringo and George quickly gathered their stuff and headed off, eager to greet their return party. Paul was hesitant.
He stared at the opening with a measure of fear and desire.
“Are you going to go, or just stare at it the whole day?” John asked from the side. He had taken the time to put his uncomfortable contacts in and dry off some. He was only just getting his stuff ready now.
Instead of a retort of any kind, Paul just turned to him with an openly unsure face tinged with worry.
“What’s the matter? Worried Jane gained weight while you were away?” John asked, trying to ease his friend.
“It just-“ Paul broke off, not even knowing how he could describe the feelings clashing against each other within him.
“Oi,” John nudged him gently with his shoulder. He met his gaze, conveying confidence.
Paul had always appreciated John’s ability to help without having to pry too much into Paul’s problems.
“Shall we?” John bowed and held out his hand, as though he was escorting a fine lady of the English court in Victorian days.
“Together?” Paul asked, needing to have John beside him to anchor him.
“I shan’t have it any other way, milady,” John proceeded to flutter his eyelashes. Paul gave a soft smile.
“Alright.”
Side-by-side, they exited the airplane, into the bright sunlit runway. Paul was startled, not by the brightness, but by the roar of the fans who had arrived to greet them back. He had forgotten how they used to do that. People simply didn’t gather in large masses at airports just to see a band they liked arrive in the future. He gave a little wave and a smile. The group responded with screams.
Though a window, they spotted thier families and friends gathered in one of the private arrival rooms of the airport. John and Paul hurried over, urged by the shouts and hollers. Once inside, the door was shut, blocking out the loud noises. Cynthia quickly approached John, and glancing around, Paul saw Ringo and George were already meeting and talking with their own friends and families. A flash of red hair caught Paul’s eye and he let a smile spread.
“Jane,” He greeted her. She leant up on her toes and gave him a fond hug and a long kiss.
“Paul! I’m so glad you’re back. How was America?” She asked inquisitively as she pulled back.
“Sunny.” He spent a few moments just looking at her. Jane really was a beautiful girl.
“I can tell that much; you’re brown as a nut.” The actress tapped a fingernail against his tanner than usual forearm. Over her shoulder, he spied the Harrison group, which included George's girlfriend, Pattie and his mum.
The sight of George’s mother made Paul grin in nostalgia. She nit-picked over George in a way only a mother could. Paul felt a little pang. To this day, he still missed his own mum. He knew George missed his mother immensely after she passed. No child ever really got over the loss of a parent, they were irreplaceable and-
“Paul!” The voice was male, and it rang from behind.
Paul froze visibly. His mind was desperately trying to catch up to a truth he just realized in his heart. Slowly, like the unthawing of a statue, he turned around.
He knew -even without turning around- he knew who it was.
“Da,” The word was uttered feebly. Water began to prick at his eyes as the image of his father filled his gaze. In a flash, he ran over to the man grabbing his frame in a tight embrace. Paul clung to his father’s neck like a dying man. He was alive. He was really, really alive.
“Paul? Paulie? What’s the matter?” His dad asked, evident concern littered his tone.
Paul was beyond words, the same, unbelievably true fact that his father was still here, within his reach, stole any breath he had away.
“What’s gotten into our kid?” Jim asked, looking to Jane and the remainder of the band.
“I’ve never seen him like this before,” Jane replied, her face white. The older man’s sharp gaze quickly flicked to the men.
“Haven’t the foggiest. He’s been doing this for a while now though,” George offered awkwardly.
“Doing what?” Jim demanded.
“The hugging thing, though we kind of assumed it had died out,” Ringo commented.
“It’s okay, what’s going on, Paulie?” The oldest McCartney asked, turning back to his distressed son.
All Paul could manage was a shaky, “I just missed you so much,” before he started crying again.
“I haven’t gone anywhere. I know it was a long trip, and I’m glad you missed me, but it’s nothing to cry about. I’m right here,” Jim tried to soothe, patting his son’s back. It was a little frightening for Jim to see his oldest son behaving like this. The last time he had seen Paul break down like this was when Mary had died. He couldn’t think of anything else that could upset his son so much. There was a fair amount of time until the anniversary of her death, so he doubted that Mary McCartney was a source of Paul’s tears.
Watching from the side, especially quiet, was John. Paul had said the exact same things when he had seen John that day. The older man couldn’t help but wonder what exactly it meant. There was something going on in Paul’s mind, something John couldn’t even grasp. Watching his friend sob, there was one thing he did understand.
Paul was crying from pure, undiluted joy.
Knowing this really didn’t clear anything up.
Finally pulling himself together a bit, Paul pulled himself up and wiped at his eyes. He met the eyes of the onlookers with an embarrassed and watery smile. He couldn’t find it within himself to really feel too awkward, because in this moment, he had his father back, and that was a feeling that swept anything ill away.
“It’s good to be back,” Paul stated. And now he beamed at them, cheerfully. All the tears were wiped away and the trails were quickly drying in the sun.
*
**
***
AN:So . . . how are we liking things with Georgie?
Also, I HAVE THE NEXT TWO CHAPTERS WRITTEN! Yay me! I just need to do a final edit and I will have them out. You'll hear from me probably within the week.
Next chapters are HERE
Shoutout to the lurkers! You know who you are my anonymous dears~