A Most Curious Place (An AU John/Paul Slash-fic)
A Most Curious Place
Author: Lennonsmuse
Structure: Since this story is primarily about Paul, John and another lead character’s observations of them, most chapter are written in a character’s POV, with the exception of occasional third-person perspectives by the author.
Relationships: John/Paul (foremost), John/Nicky, Paul/Nicky
Rating: R, for sexual content, drug use and language.
Summary: One singer of an American girl group called The Honeys, who is also a music critic and aspiring journalist for The Boston Globe, gets a little closer to a couple of Beatles than she’d bargained for and is shocked by what’s revealed to her in the process. Should she sell the story that’s likely to make her a household name or continue preserving the friendship and trust of two of the music industry’s most talented up-and-coming stars?
Disclaimer: (Reminder, it's AU, which means that although some facts remain, I have taken the liberty of re-writing certain historical events for the sake of the storyline.) This fic is in no way intended to reflect the real lives of the non-fictional persons portrayed within. There’s not much real-life wife or girlfriend drama here; just one Beatle’s pending divorce, mid to late-60s Beatlemania in all its glorified madness and the strong partnership of John Lennon and Paul McCartney as observed by a girl named Nicky on the Beatles scene.
(Note of importance: Nicky may seem typically Mary Sue-ish at first glance....and maybe even she thinks she is....but believe me, by the time she begins getting sucked into The Beatles Vortex and ripped to shreds, she won't be.)
A Most Curious Place
Chapter One: In the beginning….there was Lennon; John’s POV
I still sometimes debate with meself about quitting smoking and such mainly because everyone tells me I’ll regret it one day when me voice finally goes…or that I already sound too raspy and it’s ruining me vocal chords. But what the hell do they think is happ’nin’ when I’m on stage, screaming me lungs out in vain and it would appear no one’s really listening anyway?
“Don’t smoke another fag, Johnny…that's bad for yer throat, you know…but by all means, it’s perfectly alright to drag yer arse onstage and keep tryin' to out-scream several thousand people!”
What the Hell kind of shite logic is that?
Well, since our handlers been assurin' us of late that it won't be much longer 'fore we’ll be reaping the benefits of screamin’ these hits out like we do, I guess I shouldn’t be complaining so much about it. After all, lots of our cronies back in the 'Pool are still starving and working those neverendin' nights in the same soddin’ clubs we used to break a sweat ‘round the plums just trying to get booked into.
Just a chance for someone to hear us, you know. That’s all we wanted. To have a real audience. Have people listen to our songs.
Well, guess what? We got the audience now. It's bigger and more out of control than we ever imagined it'd be…
...and the irony of this is?
They can’t possibly be hearin' a fucking thing we play or sing.
Not even a bit of it, if I were to reckon. I could likely just as soon turn me arse up to the microphone and boff to a drum beat and they’d still scream like they’ve lost their minds or were on the verge of soakin' their little knickers through.
So, even appreciating the success and looking forward to the benefits it might afford us someday, I still can't help but secretly envy those rockers who are starving to play the very same sweaty little clubs we used to and actually gettin' heard by their crowds, you know.
Ah, sod it. I shouldn't even be bitchin' 'bout it. The fans are entitled to a good scream, anyhow, aren't they; the poor repressed lil' souls whose parents lock ‘em away in their rooms to protect their virtues 'cept for when they’ve the opportunity to venture out and go screamin’ after four mop-tops. Who cares? At any rate, it’s their mums and das hard-earned dough being spent on concert tickets, records and such. If they want to scream throughout the entire fucking performance, then good on them. They likely listen to the records while cooped up in their rooms and stuff, anyhow, y'know, so I s'pose they’re hearin' us at some point or other. They must feel like they really don’t need to listen yet again while we’re on stage in front of 'em, shakin’ our 'eads and that.
Aye, that sort of logic is daft, innit? But what's there to do ‘bout it?
I mean…there they are screaming over four regular fellows from a seaport town ‘cross the way who they didn’t even know breathed or walked the face of the Earth ‘til someone played 'em a single on the radio! Total madness that is!
Now it seems all they want to do is bow at our queer-looking Cuban-heeled boots.
There’s no describing how surreal this thing is, folks.
Far as I’m concerned, I’m still just me, you know. Still Johnny. Same ole chap I always been, ‘cept now I can take a glance at some bird, barely makin' eye contact with her and next thing you know she’s clutchin’ at her hair, screamin’…practically frothin’ at the mouth like she’s ‘bout to go all nutter on me and someone has to get a cop or security man to come scrape her up off the ground ‘cause ‘er knees went all nesh from the mere sight of me.
Me. Just a regular fellow, y'see....who just happens to play guitar and sing for a livin'.
But it’s just a fan’s way of showing their loyalty and gratitude for the music me and the boys make is all, yeah? That's what they all tell us anyhow. A simple display of love? Adulation? Appreciation? Blind adoration? Infatuation?
Well, thanks but no, thank you. While I appreciate the sentiment and that, I can do without all that for the most part.
I mean, yeah, I want love, adoration and attention. Most everybody does, bein' perfectly honest. I can be a total whore in terms of gettin’ and holdin’ onto attention in most cases…and you can adore me all fookin’ day long, but don’t injure me or rip me clothes off in the process.
Far as rippin' off clothes thing, don’t care for it from perfect strangers anyhow. And injuries? Hmmm….can’t say ole Johnny-Boy doesn’t fancy it a bit rough now and then, though not to the point of possibly requirin' bloody medical attention because of it.
Thankfully, at least, the birds brought 'round to our hotel rooms this time seemed sane enough. With them it was mainly just a physical thing, y'see. A bit of foolin' 'round; havin' a smoke, a laugh, a bevvy or two…or ten. A little bit of the ole touchy-feely…shuffled into a private bed quarters for a sheet-tangling, headboard bangin’ good time with a Beatle and then ushered on their merry way and left to mingle with all the mad screamin’ lot of ‘em beyond the 'otel parlours.
I had this one bird-mind you, I’ve had far more than just the one-but this specific one actually made it back to me room a second time ‘round and told me that after she was set out of our suites the first time this whole mob of frantic screamin' girls chased her and her friend down the walkway. She thought for certain they were gonna smash ‘em up or something out of envy, but instead they started beggin’ 'em for a feel of all things…and then asked if they'd sign some photos of us for ‘em.
Completely twisted that, but I could very well picture it all inside me twisted little mind as she was tellin’ it…
….the whole sordid scene….
“OHMYGAAAWD, YOU TOUCHED JOHN? I JUST LUUUUUVE HIM AND PAUL SOOOOOO MUCH!!!! CAN YOU TOUCH ME TOO? OKAY, TOUCH ME WITH THE SAME HAND YOU TOUCHED HIM WITH….OOOOOO, YEAH….” hysterical fanbird thrusts out a knocker “…..RIGHT HERE…AND THEN SIGN THIS PICTURE FOR ME, TOO, PLEEEEEASE????”
Fookin’ crazy!
We have seen a lot of craziness goin' on these past couple years…and just these past weeks here in America have practically been off the charts where crazy goes! Been forced to helplessly observe the whole side-show going on here, we have, ‘cause, apparently, we’re virtual prisoners in The States. Sure ‘nuff, it’s gotten pretty insane everywhere else as well, but we didn’t really expect it bein' as much like this here since we felt like no one knew about us when we first got to America.
So, we’re still trying to figure out why it’s called ‘Land of the Free’.
Reckon it might seem free…’less you’re workin' class and dirt poor…or coloured…or a Beatle. I don’t get this whole fuckin' concept of bein' free in a country where just ‘cause a person’s not white they can’t get into certain places in some states, you know….or they can’t sit just wherever they fucking want to in the arenas and such. Total lunacy that. After all, it’s the coloured R&B artists who’ve pioneered lots of the sounds that inspire us. Chuck Berry. Little Richard. The Miracles and other Motown artists. They gonna tell us we can’t share a bill with our own musical heroes and have their fans sit wherever they fuckin' want to in the theatres or arenas if the chance ever comes for it?
No bloody way.
So, we've decided we won’t be playing front of any segregated audiences over ‘ere or anyplace else for that matter. Bugger that.
‘Pfft! Land of the Free my arse!’ I think with an ironic larf.
And that’s precisely where I sit now, Land of the Fuckin’ Free, frozen in this whole bizarre little moment, staring blindly out from behind a pair of black shades at the all the sweaty palms of the “Screamies” outside our four-wheeled cocoon, leaving huge smudge-prints on the glass, trying to pound their way in as we attempt making a safe getaway from the final show of this amazin'ly insane little American tour.
“What’s the bloody ‘old-up then?” I ask no one in particular, voice raised in near panic, flashing a stone-blind glare toward me mate Paulie. I think it’s Paul, at least. We all look the same after a show. Dark clothes. Sweaty mop-top hair. Wide eyes, still disbelieving at the absurdity of it all.
Hard to tell one of us from the other through the dark lenses. In fact, if I didn’t already know I was me, I’d likely wonder just who the 'ell I really was.
Pulling the sunglasses down me nose a bit, to more closely inspect the warm body in question, proves enough to confirm that it’s indeed Macca stuffed into seat beside me.
Pet name, you know.
Anyhow, those huge eyes of his, warm and drippin’ like the colour of dark honey, are a dead giveaway…even to me 'opelessly sight-impaired orbs.
Seriously. Paulie’s got the most amazin' pair of eyes you ever seen on a bloke…prettier than most birds can get theirs even with the witchery of make-up….and at present with his long curled lashes and wide-open stare, he looks like a fuckin’ doe caught dead in the lights of an oncomin' motorcar only two seconds from cripplin' him.
Taking a moment to elaborate on the sight-impairment thing, you see, I’m half blind on a usual basis but even more so when we perform 'cause I refuse to wear me contact lenses or glasses during a show.
I prefer not seeing most of what goes on past the edge of the stage anyhow.
But you probably already know all about me personal afflictions and paranoid-anomalies if you’re any kind of Beatles fan, yeah?
Right. So, no need for more talk of it then.
Anyroad, I just slipped me shades on over the already blindness and now I can see even less of this whole scene, save the numerous fuzzy-looking hands smearing up the car glass just inches from me nose. It’s all really distorted in a good way. Nice, dark and grainy like a nightmare you think you can escape from if only you achieve semi-consciousness long enough to shiver your body awake and bolt from the slumber-induced fright before the Boogie-Man can get a grab at you. So, in me own mind, scary as this whole worldwide fan-mob scene has sometimes been, I’m better off if it all looks distorted as possible.
At least until I can shake meself awake and be back fuckin' 'ome again.
But thing is, the four-wheeled prison we’re trapped inside of isn’t exactly going any-soddin'-where now that we braved the mad crush outside it to make it here in a few whole but still separate pieces. Mal and Neil are up front, and Neil’s at the helm….lookin' like the ill-fated captain who commandeered the sinking Titanic must've. And Mal? Well, he’s just Mal as usual, y'know. Quiet and in control as ever. No hint that anything disastrous or out of the ordinary could ensue if you were to search his face for a clue of it.
Not the case with Neil though. He looks damn near panicked, albeit not much more than the four skinny and sweaty lads cramped into the rear of a mobile Alcatraz.
Correction, and excuse me very much….; three sweaty lads. ‘Cause from what I can make out even in me half-blindness, the fourth, sweatiest and skinniest of us all looks like he could absolutely give a shit about much of anything at present.
“Come ‘ead, get a move on then! What are we doin’ here, fellas? Givin’ ‘em ‘nuff bleedin' time to smash through the fuckin' car at us?” I ask again since no one bothered with a response the first time.
Well, Paulie looks too stunned to respond, for one…and George is pretending not to notice all the commotion goin' on ‘round us. Geo's the type prefers remainin' aloof, indifferent to and bored by this frantic display of fanfare most the time, ‘cept when he feels ‘specially bitchy….and then you hear what a filthy mouth the so-called ‘quiet Beatle’ really has on him!
Makes me proud to think I helped raise the lad right.
“John’s right then! Let’s just take off and get this fan-trap the hell outta ‘ere already!” Ringo-ME MASSIVELY-BEJEWEL-DIGITED HERO!-calls out to our prison guards, twisting ‘round in his seat like a trapped zoo monkey who's only just realized his cage is bein’ rattled by a mob of crazed hyenas runnin' totally amok. “Mal! Nell! What gives, mates? What’s takin’ so long up there, anyhow?”
Neil calls back to our drummer, sounding frustrated as hell, “I’m trying to get a move on, but I can’t very well just run ‘em over now, can I, Ritchie?”
Debatable. Might we perhaps put that to a vote, at least?
Alright. Don’t go all potty on me now. I’m not that sadistic. I don’t really want to see physical harm come to any of our American fans, you know.
We need ‘em for record sales over ‘ere, after all.
“Could turn out to be a soddin’ disaster, this.” Paul says, lips almost mashed to me ear as the car jerks in a vain attempt to actually fookin' move. “Eppy’s probably having a fuss about all this in the other car right now, aye, John?”
“That’s because he doesn’t want the hyenas of mass-destruction derailin’ his money train, son.”
“Ah, come ‘ead, Johnny! He must care more 'bout us than only that, mussin' he?” Paul facetiously pretends to defend our manager to me.
“I wouldn’t if I were him.” I lament, pushing the shades back up on me eyes to further blacken the potty view 'round us. “Right! Let us join hands in prayer then, shall we, Lads?” I bellow, pulling on me invisible priest’s collar and a faux Irish drawl as I grasp Macca’s fingers. “Our Fodders…who eat New Haven…HollowHead Bizz's thy name….grant us Pieces of Earth and Wisdom-teeth…whilst we hear The Temptations…and grope us sum daily breast. Ah-men.”
“Ah, yer tote'ly daft ye are, Father Lennon!” me pretty-eyed mate chuckles, drawing his hand from me grasp to playfully punch at me arm instead. He tosses an exasperated but pleasant look-yes, Paulie is the only living human being I know who seems capable of managing both at once-up front to our keepers. “Can’t you just inch forward even a bit then, Nelly, ole chaps? I mean, they really are gettin' scarier out there by the passin' minutes. Johnny’s right, y'know…the glass jus' seems all wonky now and the longer we keep sittin' here, it’s like they’re comin’ clean through it at us!”
Then suddenly, as if in answer to St. Paulie’s prayer, the car lurches desperately forward and the desperately frantic little hands that were clawing at the glass start to depart from it pair by sweaty pair as our Titanic coasts through the night.
And it's yet another narrow escape as we accelerate through and away from the latest bombardment of the US Screamies.
We all emit audible sighs of relief.
'Cept for George that is, who, still sulky and unconcerned in his seat, eyes half-slit and appearing half the size he actually is, looks ‘round at the rest of us in vague disgust and mutters while shaking his head, “I dunno why you all get so put out about it every single time it ‘appens. It’s not like they’ve ever caught us before, you know…”
“Heil, George-state-the-obvious-weallbeenthere-andwebloodyknow-we-haven’t-been-caught-yet-by-thescreamies-Haddison!” I bellow and Nazi-salute with the last bit of energy I can muster before collapsing back into me seat.
“Well, it’s true…” he lilts in a mildly unaffected way.
But need I remind this currently indifferent and sometimes pessimistic optimist that there’s a first time for everything?
Not right now, I s'pose. Words for another day.
Instead, releasing a deep weary breath, I settle comfortably into the squeaky black upholstery and decide to catch some kip behind me shades, content to use Paulie’s shoulder as a pillow for the time being…and becoming mildly thrilled when he doesn’t protest ‘cause I’m just too damn knackered to move again.
Then I start driftin' toward a warm hazy dream about being fastened in aboard our waiting flight back to England.