Fic: Don't You Know, It's Gonna Be Alright
Title: Don't You Know, It's Gonna Be Alright
Author: Lizzy!
Pairing: John/Paul
Rating: Uhh... PG or PG-13 maybe.
Warnings: Swearing, death, and angst.
Timeframe: 1958.
Summary: “Go to sleep John. It’s okay.” John almost laughed. “No it’s not.”
Author Notes: Another attempt! I told someone here I’d do a story about this, so here it is. Unrelated: I was thinking about doing a multipart fic at some point (the idea of which kind of scares me a little) based on modern-day Paul telling his daughter, Beatrice, about the Beatles. It would be going back and forth between his conversations with her and flashbacks and would be J/P/G/R/everyone else ever involved ever. It would cover about the time when Paul and George met to present day, with more detail in some areas than others, obviously. Anyway, what do you guys think? It seems like kind of a daunting task, but I think it might have some potential.
Disclaimer: I don't own John Lennon, Paul McCartney, John's Aunt Mimi or his mother, or Paul's little bro or his dad. This is inspired by an actual sucktacular event, but the emphasis is on 'inspired.'
It was a sunny day.
How ironic. One of the few sunny, beautiful days that Liverpool was allowed, and this is what happened.
John didn’t pay much attention when the doorbell rang. He was sprawled out on his bed, in another world, the climbing tendrils of his daydreams wrapping around his brain and shutting out the blandness of reality. His mind sloshed around in an ocean of thoughts so complex and divinely intricate that the only place he ever thought they could belong was between his ears.
He heard someone speaking, a male voice, and his Aunt Mimi’s reply. He only heard the sound, didn’t process it. It simply brushed over him like a warm breeze.
Until he heard his Aunt wail in despair.
“No. You’re mistaken, I’m sorry, you must be… she was just here an hour ago.”
John was rudely ripped from his own thoughts at the sound of Mimi’s cries.
He slumped down the stairs, still not thinking clearly enough to be concerned. He was only curious.
“’Ey, what’s goin’ on?”
There was a tall police officer standing at the door, trying to calm the sobbing woman.
“Mimi?” John felt dread falling heavily into his stomach. “What happened?” Seeing he was going to get no answer out of his Aunt, he directed his question at the officer.
The bulky man replied. “I’m here to report that there has been an extremely unfortunate accident involving a Miss Julia Stanley.”
John’s skin prickled with fear. “What?” he asked, the words barely falling from his mouth.
“I’m afraid there was a car accident. She was crossing the street, and there was an inebriated driver… I’m afraid he just wasn’t able to stop in time, son.”
John stared at the officer. For a moment, it was as though the words had no meaning, as if they were gibberish. And then they sorted themselves in his mind and he felt everything all at once. He couldn’t breath.
“Is she okay?” he asked dumbly, as if he didn’t already know the answer.
The officer looked at him with sympathy. “No, I’m afraid she was killed.”
John felt as though he was drowning. It was a nightmare, right? He told himself to wake up, he clenched his fists, hoping to feel the sheets bunching under his hands, hoping that he would open his eyes and feel a sheen of sweat on his forehead and realize with a sense of overwhelming relief that none of it had been real.
None of this happened. He just stood there, staring at his weeping Aunt and the sympathetic officer. That stupid, patronizing bastard. Standing there with that look of pity on his face as though he had any clue what was going on. As if he cared. As if he wasn’t just another stupid, clueless cunt who thought that he had some understanding of the world. Fucking twat. All John could feel was hatred for this man standing in the doorway. He couldn’t allow himself to feel anything else. The alternative was too horrible.
Finally, he backed up the stairs. “No.” He whispered. “No.”
“I’m so sorry, son,” the man offered.
“No! You… you fuckin’ don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, you’re wrong!”
He ran up the stairs and slammed his bedroom door. He tried to breath, but felt as though someone had poured acid into his lungs. He coughed and gasped for air. Out. He needed out. He couldn’t stay in this room, this house. He needed to leave, now.
He grabbed his leather jacket and ran.
He rocketed down the stairs and pushed past the policeman and Mimi, ignoring, her cries and her questions as to where he was going. He didn’t fucking care anymore. He needed some air, some time too, but mostly just some bloody air. He ran until he felt like he was going to black out.
He walked to the nearest pub, in a daze. He had a few drinks, he wasn’t really sure how many. He wandered from place to place, barely noticing when he nearly bumped into other people, not bothering to acknowledge a friend who passed him in the street. He didn’t notice the sky darkening or the temperature dropping. He already felt cold, anyway.
It was late when he was thrown out of the bar he had wandered into. The bartender told him to “Go home, son, it’s late, yer knackered.” He wasn’t really that drunk. He was really only impaired by the crushing grief that slowly infected his soul as he realized that this was really, truly happening. His mother was dead.
He stepped out into the cold air. It was drizzling as he started walking. The rain was falling in small, hard droplets that his face and hands like tiny, freezing needles. He began to run. He felt as though he was being chased by something too big and awful to face. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly. Maybe if he ran fast enough, he could get away from this great, terrible thing, maybe he could lose it. Maybe he could get to safety and hide.
Tears streaked down his face. He told himself it was the alcohol, selectively forgetting that he was never a weepy drunk. He stopped, propping himself up against a building, clinging to the brick as though it was the only thing keeping him up. He doubled over as he felt his stomach twist painfully and he heaved onto the pavement, crying. Whether it was the booze or the poison of grief that made him sick, he couldn’t be sure. He felt like this horrible thing he had tried to evade was closing in on him, wrapping around him.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t face it.
He couldn’t face it alone.
Suddenly, he began running again, his breath fighting with his tears, until he found himself on a familiar street - Forthlin Road.
He didn’t bother throwing pebbles at Paul’s window tonight. He couldn’t risk not being heard. He ran straight to the door and pounded on it.
“Let me in! Please!” He begged, “Please Paul!”
He stood there for a few moments, crying and begging and abusing that poor front door before he felt it open.
“Jesus John, did you have to wake the whole fuckin’…” Paul trailed off when he saw the state John was in.
“Paul! Who is at the door and what in God’s name do they think they want at this hour?” Jim McCartney was not amused by John’s late night visit.
“Come in, you look terrible,” Paul pulled John into the house, closing the door behind him, locking the vast, terrifying world out. “Christ, John, what happened?”
“She’s dead!” John wailed. “Hit by a fuckin’ car!” He felt himself crumbling.
“Who’s dead, John?” Paul asked, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Julia. She’s dead. She’s gone,” he finally allowed himself to sob.
“Paul! I’m talking to you! It’s three in the morning!” Jim shouted.
Paul ignored him. “Oh God, John. Are you serious?”
“Of course I’m fuckin’ serious!”
“Oh shit. Johnny…”
“God, Paul, what the hell is goin’ on!?” Mike cried irritably.
“Fuck off! Some people have bigger problems than you not gettin’ enough beauty sleep!” Paul shouted up the stairs. He grabbed John by the wrist. “Come on, son, we’ll sort you out.”
“Paul, what…” Jim began irritably as he saw his son leading that little shit he called his best friend up the stairs.
“Later Dad.”
“Don’t ‘later’ me, what’s going on?”
“Piss off!” John cried.
“Excuse me-“
“HIS FUCKIN’ MOTHER JUST DIED, FOR FUCK’S SAKE, LEAVE OFF!” Paul shouted, pulling John into his bedroom and locking the door.
John immediately collapsed on the floor of Paul’s bedroom. In any other circumstance, the smallish room would have felt cozy. It was slightly cluttered with stacks of records and books, but not messy. The lamp beside the bed gave off a warm, yellow light. The sound of rain outside made the little room feel like a haven from the harsh fury of the universe.
But John was too scared, too lost in his tears and too empty to feel the same haze of comfortable safety he usually felt here. Not yet.
Paul softly knelt down on the braided rug that covered the wood floor, sitting next to his inconsolable friend. John curled up, leaning with his back against the bed, weeping, sobbing. He wanted to stop hurting. He wanted to stop crying. He didn’t want to cry this hard ever, let alone in front of people. But how could he do it alone?
Paul scooted over next to him, mimicking John’s position against the bed. They sat close, their elbows touching.
He put arms around John’s shoulders, Pulling him close so that John’s head was on his shoulder.
“Johnny, I’m sorry son. I really am.”
John just nodded.
“I know it’s usually shite when people say this, but I really do know how yeh feel.”
John let Paul pull him closer and trace small circles on his back with his thumb.
“I know. That’s… why ‘m here. I think. I don’t really know why ‘m here.”
“Thass’ okay,” Paul murmured, petting John’s soaked hair. “It’s always okay.”
They sat there for a few moments, Paul holding his broken mate like a father holds a frightened child.
Slowly, John’s sobs crumbled down to soft whimpers and sniffles.
“Come on, John. Gotta sleep.”
John looked at him, terrified of being left without his only means of survival. “Can I stay? Please?”
“’Course, son, but we gotta sleep in the bed. M’ arse is fallin’ asleep here.”
Normally at this point, John would’ve made an off-color joke, or at least laughed, but the only thing he could do was nod dumbly. Paul lifted himself off the floor, pulling John up with him. He peeled off John’s leather jacket and softly reminded him to take off his shoes. John obeyed mindlessly (a rare occurrence for him).
Paul flopped into bed, sighing at the wonderful feeling of hitting the mattress. John slid in next to him, pulling the covers up. He laid an arm possessively over Paul’s chest, leaning his head on his shoulder. Paul reached over to turn off the light.
“Paul?” John whispered, tears still hanging on his voice.
“What is it, Johnny?”
John stared at him. “We need to stay together.”
“We will. We’ve gotta go be bigger than Elvis, remember?” He smiled comfortingly.
“I mean forever.”
“I know. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
Silence for a few moments.
“Promise me somethin’?”
“What’s that?”
“I know we both have to die… please let me go first. I can’t…” John’s voice suddenly stuck in his throat, strangling him again.
“Hey.” Paul brushed the hair out of John’s face. “I won’t leave. I won’t die. I promise.”
John simply nodded, his face buried in Paul’s shoulder. Paul pulled him as close as he could get and stroked his back.
“Go to sleep John. It’s okay.”
John almost laughed. “No it’s not.”
Paul shrugged. “Well… yeah, that’s true. It’s not. But it will be. It’s gonna be alright.”
John was amazed at how ready to sleep he was. He thought for sure the stabbing pain that filled him would keep him up, but he quickly found himself sinking into the comfortable warmth of Paul’s bed (and Paul).
Paul didn’t sleep for a while, however. He glanced over at John’s tearstained face leaning against his shoulder. He felt a pang of sharp pain at the memory of his own mother’s death. ‘That was me,’ he though, looking at the contented face that hid the tumultuous, overwhelming pain behind it.
He wasn’t sure what hurt more; his own aching sense of loss, or that of his best friend. The difference between Paul and John was that Paul was… well, okay. He could cope with these things. But Paul knew, despite John’s attempts at hiding it, that John was weak. He was a terrified little boy who was always in more trouble than he could handle. Behind his bluster and bombast, he nursed the permanent ache of losing his father, then his mother, then his Uncle George, and now his mother again. John would always crave love. But he would never get the kind of love he really wanted.
Paul pushed these thoughts away. He told himself, he would stay with John, just like he promised. He loved the older boy so much it scared him sometimes. He honestly believed they could do anything. He knew. He knew John was a genius, that they could be geniuses together.
He held his beautiful, twisted, wounded, brilliant, perfect best friend and promised him silently, perhaps telepathically, that he would take care of him for as long as he was needed. He would love him, he would make sure he was alright.
Somewhere in Paul’s mind, though, he knew John’s heart would never be completely whole. He knew, no matter what he told him, that John would never really be alright.
Author: Lizzy!
Pairing: John/Paul
Rating: Uhh... PG or PG-13 maybe.
Warnings: Swearing, death, and angst.
Timeframe: 1958.
Summary: “Go to sleep John. It’s okay.” John almost laughed. “No it’s not.”
Author Notes: Another attempt! I told someone here I’d do a story about this, so here it is. Unrelated: I was thinking about doing a multipart fic at some point (the idea of which kind of scares me a little) based on modern-day Paul telling his daughter, Beatrice, about the Beatles. It would be going back and forth between his conversations with her and flashbacks and would be J/P/G/R/everyone else ever involved ever. It would cover about the time when Paul and George met to present day, with more detail in some areas than others, obviously. Anyway, what do you guys think? It seems like kind of a daunting task, but I think it might have some potential.
Disclaimer: I don't own John Lennon, Paul McCartney, John's Aunt Mimi or his mother, or Paul's little bro or his dad. This is inspired by an actual sucktacular event, but the emphasis is on 'inspired.'
It was a sunny day.
How ironic. One of the few sunny, beautiful days that Liverpool was allowed, and this is what happened.
John didn’t pay much attention when the doorbell rang. He was sprawled out on his bed, in another world, the climbing tendrils of his daydreams wrapping around his brain and shutting out the blandness of reality. His mind sloshed around in an ocean of thoughts so complex and divinely intricate that the only place he ever thought they could belong was between his ears.
He heard someone speaking, a male voice, and his Aunt Mimi’s reply. He only heard the sound, didn’t process it. It simply brushed over him like a warm breeze.
Until he heard his Aunt wail in despair.
“No. You’re mistaken, I’m sorry, you must be… she was just here an hour ago.”
John was rudely ripped from his own thoughts at the sound of Mimi’s cries.
He slumped down the stairs, still not thinking clearly enough to be concerned. He was only curious.
“’Ey, what’s goin’ on?”
There was a tall police officer standing at the door, trying to calm the sobbing woman.
“Mimi?” John felt dread falling heavily into his stomach. “What happened?” Seeing he was going to get no answer out of his Aunt, he directed his question at the officer.
The bulky man replied. “I’m here to report that there has been an extremely unfortunate accident involving a Miss Julia Stanley.”
John’s skin prickled with fear. “What?” he asked, the words barely falling from his mouth.
“I’m afraid there was a car accident. She was crossing the street, and there was an inebriated driver… I’m afraid he just wasn’t able to stop in time, son.”
John stared at the officer. For a moment, it was as though the words had no meaning, as if they were gibberish. And then they sorted themselves in his mind and he felt everything all at once. He couldn’t breath.
“Is she okay?” he asked dumbly, as if he didn’t already know the answer.
The officer looked at him with sympathy. “No, I’m afraid she was killed.”
John felt as though he was drowning. It was a nightmare, right? He told himself to wake up, he clenched his fists, hoping to feel the sheets bunching under his hands, hoping that he would open his eyes and feel a sheen of sweat on his forehead and realize with a sense of overwhelming relief that none of it had been real.
None of this happened. He just stood there, staring at his weeping Aunt and the sympathetic officer. That stupid, patronizing bastard. Standing there with that look of pity on his face as though he had any clue what was going on. As if he cared. As if he wasn’t just another stupid, clueless cunt who thought that he had some understanding of the world. Fucking twat. All John could feel was hatred for this man standing in the doorway. He couldn’t allow himself to feel anything else. The alternative was too horrible.
Finally, he backed up the stairs. “No.” He whispered. “No.”
“I’m so sorry, son,” the man offered.
“No! You… you fuckin’ don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, you’re wrong!”
He ran up the stairs and slammed his bedroom door. He tried to breath, but felt as though someone had poured acid into his lungs. He coughed and gasped for air. Out. He needed out. He couldn’t stay in this room, this house. He needed to leave, now.
He grabbed his leather jacket and ran.
He rocketed down the stairs and pushed past the policeman and Mimi, ignoring, her cries and her questions as to where he was going. He didn’t fucking care anymore. He needed some air, some time too, but mostly just some bloody air. He ran until he felt like he was going to black out.
He walked to the nearest pub, in a daze. He had a few drinks, he wasn’t really sure how many. He wandered from place to place, barely noticing when he nearly bumped into other people, not bothering to acknowledge a friend who passed him in the street. He didn’t notice the sky darkening or the temperature dropping. He already felt cold, anyway.
It was late when he was thrown out of the bar he had wandered into. The bartender told him to “Go home, son, it’s late, yer knackered.” He wasn’t really that drunk. He was really only impaired by the crushing grief that slowly infected his soul as he realized that this was really, truly happening. His mother was dead.
He stepped out into the cold air. It was drizzling as he started walking. The rain was falling in small, hard droplets that his face and hands like tiny, freezing needles. He began to run. He felt as though he was being chased by something too big and awful to face. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly. Maybe if he ran fast enough, he could get away from this great, terrible thing, maybe he could lose it. Maybe he could get to safety and hide.
Tears streaked down his face. He told himself it was the alcohol, selectively forgetting that he was never a weepy drunk. He stopped, propping himself up against a building, clinging to the brick as though it was the only thing keeping him up. He doubled over as he felt his stomach twist painfully and he heaved onto the pavement, crying. Whether it was the booze or the poison of grief that made him sick, he couldn’t be sure. He felt like this horrible thing he had tried to evade was closing in on him, wrapping around him.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t face it.
He couldn’t face it alone.
Suddenly, he began running again, his breath fighting with his tears, until he found himself on a familiar street - Forthlin Road.
He didn’t bother throwing pebbles at Paul’s window tonight. He couldn’t risk not being heard. He ran straight to the door and pounded on it.
“Let me in! Please!” He begged, “Please Paul!”
He stood there for a few moments, crying and begging and abusing that poor front door before he felt it open.
“Jesus John, did you have to wake the whole fuckin’…” Paul trailed off when he saw the state John was in.
“Paul! Who is at the door and what in God’s name do they think they want at this hour?” Jim McCartney was not amused by John’s late night visit.
“Come in, you look terrible,” Paul pulled John into the house, closing the door behind him, locking the vast, terrifying world out. “Christ, John, what happened?”
“She’s dead!” John wailed. “Hit by a fuckin’ car!” He felt himself crumbling.
“Who’s dead, John?” Paul asked, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Julia. She’s dead. She’s gone,” he finally allowed himself to sob.
“Paul! I’m talking to you! It’s three in the morning!” Jim shouted.
Paul ignored him. “Oh God, John. Are you serious?”
“Of course I’m fuckin’ serious!”
“Oh shit. Johnny…”
“God, Paul, what the hell is goin’ on!?” Mike cried irritably.
“Fuck off! Some people have bigger problems than you not gettin’ enough beauty sleep!” Paul shouted up the stairs. He grabbed John by the wrist. “Come on, son, we’ll sort you out.”
“Paul, what…” Jim began irritably as he saw his son leading that little shit he called his best friend up the stairs.
“Later Dad.”
“Don’t ‘later’ me, what’s going on?”
“Piss off!” John cried.
“Excuse me-“
“HIS FUCKIN’ MOTHER JUST DIED, FOR FUCK’S SAKE, LEAVE OFF!” Paul shouted, pulling John into his bedroom and locking the door.
John immediately collapsed on the floor of Paul’s bedroom. In any other circumstance, the smallish room would have felt cozy. It was slightly cluttered with stacks of records and books, but not messy. The lamp beside the bed gave off a warm, yellow light. The sound of rain outside made the little room feel like a haven from the harsh fury of the universe.
But John was too scared, too lost in his tears and too empty to feel the same haze of comfortable safety he usually felt here. Not yet.
Paul softly knelt down on the braided rug that covered the wood floor, sitting next to his inconsolable friend. John curled up, leaning with his back against the bed, weeping, sobbing. He wanted to stop hurting. He wanted to stop crying. He didn’t want to cry this hard ever, let alone in front of people. But how could he do it alone?
Paul scooted over next to him, mimicking John’s position against the bed. They sat close, their elbows touching.
He put arms around John’s shoulders, Pulling him close so that John’s head was on his shoulder.
“Johnny, I’m sorry son. I really am.”
John just nodded.
“I know it’s usually shite when people say this, but I really do know how yeh feel.”
John let Paul pull him closer and trace small circles on his back with his thumb.
“I know. That’s… why ‘m here. I think. I don’t really know why ‘m here.”
“Thass’ okay,” Paul murmured, petting John’s soaked hair. “It’s always okay.”
They sat there for a few moments, Paul holding his broken mate like a father holds a frightened child.
Slowly, John’s sobs crumbled down to soft whimpers and sniffles.
“Come on, John. Gotta sleep.”
John looked at him, terrified of being left without his only means of survival. “Can I stay? Please?”
“’Course, son, but we gotta sleep in the bed. M’ arse is fallin’ asleep here.”
Normally at this point, John would’ve made an off-color joke, or at least laughed, but the only thing he could do was nod dumbly. Paul lifted himself off the floor, pulling John up with him. He peeled off John’s leather jacket and softly reminded him to take off his shoes. John obeyed mindlessly (a rare occurrence for him).
Paul flopped into bed, sighing at the wonderful feeling of hitting the mattress. John slid in next to him, pulling the covers up. He laid an arm possessively over Paul’s chest, leaning his head on his shoulder. Paul reached over to turn off the light.
“Paul?” John whispered, tears still hanging on his voice.
“What is it, Johnny?”
John stared at him. “We need to stay together.”
“We will. We’ve gotta go be bigger than Elvis, remember?” He smiled comfortingly.
“I mean forever.”
“I know. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
Silence for a few moments.
“Promise me somethin’?”
“What’s that?”
“I know we both have to die… please let me go first. I can’t…” John’s voice suddenly stuck in his throat, strangling him again.
“Hey.” Paul brushed the hair out of John’s face. “I won’t leave. I won’t die. I promise.”
John simply nodded, his face buried in Paul’s shoulder. Paul pulled him as close as he could get and stroked his back.
“Go to sleep John. It’s okay.”
John almost laughed. “No it’s not.”
Paul shrugged. “Well… yeah, that’s true. It’s not. But it will be. It’s gonna be alright.”
John was amazed at how ready to sleep he was. He thought for sure the stabbing pain that filled him would keep him up, but he quickly found himself sinking into the comfortable warmth of Paul’s bed (and Paul).
Paul didn’t sleep for a while, however. He glanced over at John’s tearstained face leaning against his shoulder. He felt a pang of sharp pain at the memory of his own mother’s death. ‘That was me,’ he though, looking at the contented face that hid the tumultuous, overwhelming pain behind it.
He wasn’t sure what hurt more; his own aching sense of loss, or that of his best friend. The difference between Paul and John was that Paul was… well, okay. He could cope with these things. But Paul knew, despite John’s attempts at hiding it, that John was weak. He was a terrified little boy who was always in more trouble than he could handle. Behind his bluster and bombast, he nursed the permanent ache of losing his father, then his mother, then his Uncle George, and now his mother again. John would always crave love. But he would never get the kind of love he really wanted.
Paul pushed these thoughts away. He told himself, he would stay with John, just like he promised. He loved the older boy so much it scared him sometimes. He honestly believed they could do anything. He knew. He knew John was a genius, that they could be geniuses together.
He held his beautiful, twisted, wounded, brilliant, perfect best friend and promised him silently, perhaps telepathically, that he would take care of him for as long as he was needed. He would love him, he would make sure he was alright.
Somewhere in Paul’s mind, though, he knew John’s heart would never be completely whole. He knew, no matter what he told him, that John would never really be alright.