Chapter Text
Paul watches the clock tick over into midnight with a dull ache in his stomach.
December the 8th, 2020. Forty years to the day since John died.
Paul swirls the dregs of whiskey around the tumbler in his hand, staring through it as though on the other side of the glass are answers to questions he doesn’t even know how to form. He’s lived more of his life without John than with him now, and yet he still feels like a fish out of water; floundering, still not quite sure how to survive without him.
Paul’s whole life is categorised into Before John, John, and After John. Before John is a haze, cold and dreary Liverpool days blurring into one another, only vague recollections of colours other than drab grey and listless blue. John had been such a shock to his system; the introduction of electricity in a world of candles, of colour to a world in monochrome, of adrenaline in a world of routine. And After John…well, Paul thinks, smiling wryly as he downs the last of the whiskey, savouring the way it burns his itching throat. After John is like eternally wading through knee-deep mud that always looks like it’s going to end but never does.
Things had been tenuous when John died. They’d been friends again, but in that fragile way that meant they skirted around real friendship and kept it superficial, never diving beneath the surface. Paul had been happy to have that – happy to have any part of John back in his life – but it wasn’t enough. If he’d known-
He has to break that thought off sternly. Years of therapy have taught him that – he can’t dwell on alternative pasts, follow what ifs down their yellow-brick roads, he has to learn to live with the one he landed with. He can’t change the past.
But if he could, God how he would. He’d tell John the things that now, as an old man, he has the wisdom to know he should never have kept inside. He’d not play coy, emotionally hard-to-get, but make sure John knew how vital he was to Paul’s life. He’d stop thinking only about himself, about the smarting pain John’s departure to New York had caused and how much he wanted John to feel that same pain. He wouldn’t take every day John lived as a given.
There isn’t a single thing on this world Paul wouldn’t give to go back and change it.
Not a single thing? A little voice in his mind asks.
No, Paul thinks wistfully. Not a single thing.
---------------
When Paul wakes, his whole body is stiff and aching.
Well, he supposes, that’s what happens when you’re seventy-eight and fall asleep in an armchair after a night of drinking to get through the anniversary of your best friend’s death.
Bleary-eyed, he stretches, yawning as he feels his spine popping, and rubs at the emerging crick in his neck. Bloody hell, age really takes its toll. Just as he’s about to stand up and finally switch his brain on, someone pounds on the door.
“Get up, lazy sod,” they shout, and Paul freezes, eyes flying open.
He knows that voice. He’d know that voice anywhere.
His heart is somehow in his stomach and his mouth and his feet at the same time.
“George?” he manages to croak out. For a split second, when he hears nothing but silence, he starts to relax. It must have just been the tail end of a dream – shame that he doesn’t remember the rest, he thinks wistfully. Then, however, his brain finally kicks into gear and starts communicating with his eyes.
This isn’t his room.
Or rather, it is – his room from when he was twenty-one.
Panic sets in, hitting so hard it blurs his vision. Did he take something accidentally with his whiskey last night? But no, this doesn’t look like a drug-induced hallucination (and Paul’s a veritable expert on those) – is he dead? Oh God, he’s fucking dead, isn’t he? He’s dead, and the afterlife is 1963. Did he remember to re-do his will like he’s been meaning to do for ages and putting off? Will the kids be alright – and the grandkids? Fucking hell, he shouldn’t have kept rejecting his lawyer’s calls–
Another bang on the door interrupts his sudden onset of panic.
“Are you up yet?"
Paul’s blood runs cold. He swallows, throat dry.
“George?” he asks, voice cracking.
“Yeah?” comes the voice on the other side of the door.
“Am I dead?” The door opens with a creak.
“Are you bloody what?” George sounds – and looks – bemused. Paul blinks at him.
It’s him. There’s no faking that little crease between his brows, the way one side of his mouth pulls up more than the other, the slightly unsure way he always holds himself. It’s George Harrison from 1963, and that can mean only one thing.
“Oh fuck, I’m dead,” Paul whispers faintly, and promptly passes out.
---------------
“You what?” a distant voice is asking, sounding almost amused. “Dead?”
“That’s what he kept saying,” another voice says, a note of concern in their tone.
“How’d’you know he didn’t just drink too much last night?” a more bored-sounding voice asks. “I know I’ve wanted to be dead after a few sometimes.”
“No, this was different,” the second voice says. “He really- he really thought he was dead.” Paul shifts a little, face scrunching in discomfort, trying to get further away from the voices. He wants to go back to sleep. He was having a weird dream – George was there – and-
“Paul?” the first voice asks. Paul, realising he’s given himself away by shifting, reluctantly opens his eyes to see a face leaning over him.
“Hullo,” says John Lennon evenly.
Paul blacks out again.
---------------
When he wakes up again, he notices by the sterile white environment that he’s in a hospital.
This makes a lot more sense, he thinks. Everything has been part of a drug-induced dream. He must have been sedated, and that’s why he was having such strangely lucid dreams. Yes, that’s it, he decides, settling back into his pillow.
The door opens, and a young nurse looks in.
“Oh! Mr McCartney, you’re awake!” She sounds flustered, and nervously tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear.
“So I am,” Paul says pleasantly. He always tries to humanise himself as much as possible.
“They’ve been asking to see you,” the nurse says.
“Who?” Paul asks. Christ, was he out long enough for his kids to come down? Was it that serious?
“The others,” the nurse says, sounding confused. “Shall I send them in? Visiting hours ended two hours ago, but…” she trails off with an awkward giggle, and Paul smiles. He’s not one to abuse his celebrity status often, but he’ll never pass up an opportunity to see his kids.
“Yeah, please,” he says, and she nods, blushing slightly, and backs out of the room.
“…your fuckin’ fault.” Paul hears Ringo’s distinctive voice getting louder, and frowns, wondering what Ringo’s doing here. It must have been pretty serious for Ringo to come down.
“How’s it my fault, eh?” an outraged voice asks. “All I did was wake him up.”
“Aye, and then he started muttering about being dead. Wasn’t doing that before you woke him up,” another voice says drily.
Paul’s stomach drops, an oddly familiar sensation at this point. Before he has time to process what he’s just heard – or rather, who – the door bursts open, and in clatter Ringo, George, and John.
“You’re up!” George says. Paul looks at him faintly.
“You’re alive,” he whispers. George frowns, stealing a quick glance to Ringo and John.
“Unfortunately,” John says breezily. “Tried to kill him off, we did, found a great new lead guitarist. Good-looking, that one is, too.” Paul doesn’t take his eyes off George. He can’t bear to look at John, young John, lively and full of dry wit.
“Paul, mate, are you…are you feeling alright?” George asks.
“You’re alive,” Paul repeats, voice steadier this time.
“Should we call the nurse?” Ringo asks.
“Best do,” George says, that crease of concern back between his brows.
“Am I dead?” Paul asks.
“See,” George says, both triumph and anxiety in his voice. “Told you.”
“I’ll go get the nurse,” Ringo says decisively.
“Ringo,” Paul says, eyes flitting to him. It’s Ringo alright, but not the Ringo Paul saw only two weeks ago. This is young Ringo, early twenties, still not sure about his place in the band. “You’re young."
“Thanks,” Ringo says, pausing in the doorway.
“You looked so old last time I saw you."
“Well, I haven’t got any younger since yesterday, mate,” Ringo says, and with that he leaves the room. Paul laughs, and it comes out bitter. If only he knew.
“And what am I then, the next-door neighbour?” John says idly, but Paul hears the indignant undertone in his voice. Finally, slowly, he braces himself, and turns to look at John.
John’s leaning against the wall, eyebrows half-cocked in what looks like a casual, almost bored manner, but Paul sees the lines of worry in his face, the hint of fear in his light brown eyes.
“John,” he whispers. “My God, John. You’re so young.” His fingers twitch, itching to reach out and touch John, but he can’t bring himself to do that. If his fingers pass through John, if John disintegrates at his touch, if this is another hallucination or dream, it’ll be like losing him all over again.
“You’re mental,” John says, shaking his head.
“You’re here,” Paul says, and he hears the wonder and awe in his own voice.
“Aye,” John says, and leaves it at that. A split second later, the nurse comes bustling back in with Ringo in tow.
“Mr Starr tells me you’re experiencing some shock, Mr McCartney,” the nurse says.
“Not half as much as the rest of us,” George mutters.
“Yes, I think so,” Paul says calmly. “It seems to be 1963.” The nurse’s brow furrows.
“Mr McCartney…it is 1963.”
---------------
Paul’s kept in the hospital for three more days, and every day he wakes up and is stuck in the same place, forcing him to accept that it’s real. It gives him time to ponder his situation. He spends the first day convinced he’s dead and gone to some twisted form of heaven, but the number of painful needles he gets shoved into him on an almost hourly basis convince him that no, this can’t be heaven – heaven’s supposed to be full of good things. Then he thinks perhaps it’s hell, until a little voice in his mind tells him whoever were to create his personal hell would never put John in there, as it’d have the complete opposite effect. So eventually, Paul has to conclude that he’s alive.
The second day, his theory is that the rest of his life, his kids and grandkids, that that was all a dream. He demands to read the newspapers Brian brings to read while he sits with Paul. Bemused, Brian hands them over, and Paul scans the headlines in a strange frenzy, searching for something without knowing quite what he’s looking for. The majority of the news is bland, things that Paul would have forgotten anyway, but certain things look familiar – Macmillan resigning, for example, he definitely remembers that - which means that the rest of his life hadn’t been a dream.
On the third day, John comes to visit him, and he starts thinking outside the box when his hand brushes John’s and John doesn’t disappear, hand warm and soft and real. Maybe this is a parallel universe – maybe he’s living some alternate life on a different Earth as a different Paul. But that doesn’t explain his memories of the future, so he’s left with only one conclusion.
Time travel.
If he’s time travelled, he doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do. His wife, kids, grandkids – they’re all gone. Even if he meets them again, has them again, they won’t be his. And fuck if Paul can remember the conception of each one of his children, and surely he’d have to get the situation exactly right to replicate it, and who’s to say the right sperm cell would reach the egg-
“‘Ere, Paul,” John says placidly, pulling Paul out of his spiralling thoughts. He’s sat on the chair next to Paul’s bed, looking shrewdly at Paul. The blinds are drawn, so it’s late, and John’s the only one with him, meaning everyone else has taken the sensible decision to go home, so it’s very late. “You got a fag?” Paul stares at him.
“I’m in fucking hospital, John,” he says. John grins.
“You feeling better, then?” he asks. Paul feels momentarily stupid for not realising that that had been a trick question. You haven’t dealt with John’s strange communication style for decades, though, that little voice in his head says. Somehow, even with John sitting right in front of him, the reminder of his loss causes a pang of pain.
“John,” Paul says lowly, and then stops.
“Aye?” John asks. Paul takes a deep breath. He’s promised himself countless times over the years that if he ever somehow managed to see John again, he’d not be as cowardly as he was when he first had the chance.
“You alright?” he asks instead. John looks at Paul curiously.
“Yeah, ‘m alright,” he says finally.
“You’re not,” Paul says, building up courage. John’s momentarily taken aback, but it’s quickly replaced with annoyance.
“Who’re you to say that?” he asks brusquely.
“John,” Paul says, and stops again, searching for the words. He sighs. “I don’t know how to say it. You’re right here, and I always told myself that if this situation arose…” he trails off.
“If what situation arose, you losing your bloody mind in a posh London hospital?” John’s still guarded, deflecting with humour. Paul, however, detects the undertone of fear that he’d seen three days ago when he first woke up – and it clicks. He’s scared John by being in this state.
“John,” Paul tries again. Third time lucky.
“What?” John asks, sounding irritated now.
“You know I’ll never leave you.”
There. It’s out there now, Paul thinks. There’s so much more to say, so much more Paul needs to get out – but this is the most important thing.
There’s an incredibly long pause. John studies Paul, and Paul blinks back. John seems to be weighing up what to say next. Paul knows it goes one of three ways with John – anger, which means he’s embarrassed, humour, which means he’s ashamed, or sincerity, which is probably the scariest of the three for the both of them.
“I know,” John says eventually, but his eyes have softened, the edge of fear gone. He hadn’t really known. Paul was right to say it.
“Good,” Paul says boldly, “because I won’t. Not ever.” John’s smiling now.
“Daft git,” he says, and Paul hears the fondness in his tone.
---------------
Eventually, Paul’s allowed to check himself out and go home.
Home. He’s not entirely sure where that is right now. Is it still the room he woke up in in Liverpool, or has he moved in with Jane already?
Luckily for him, he’s bundled into a taxi with the rest of them heading up north, so he figures that answers that.
“You gave us a right fright,” Ringo says, as the taxi pulls out of the hospital car park.
“Thought John’d have to write all the songs and we’d be forgotten by the end of the year,” George says, dodging the inevitable kick from John.
“You’d be forgotten ‘cause I’d strike out solo,” John says. Paul swallows back the nasty acidic taste that suddenly rises like bile in his throat.
“Oh aye, and do what?” George asks. John wags a finger at him.
“Never you mind,” he says. “I’m not spilling my secrets.”
“What month is it?” Paul asks suddenly. All three turn to look at him.
“Bloody hell, how long’s it going to be ‘til you’re right again?” John mutters.
“October,” Ringo supplies helpfully.
“Your birthday,” Paul says to John. John gives him a funny look.
“Yeah, it was great ‘til some tosser woke up the next morning convinced he was dead,” he says. Paul’s lips quirk up in a smile. So that’s why his whole body had ached the next day.
“Next morning wasn’t your birthday anymore,” he says. Then a thought hits him, and he blurts – “Christ, JFK’s going to die this year, isn’t he?” He immediately starts silently panicking because fuck, has he just broken a rule of time travel? Is the world going to implode now because he just told three people JFK was going to die? Maybe they’ll get found out for knowing he was going to die and get arrested on suspicion of being involved in the plan. That’d be a headline and a half – Beatles kill JFK. John would probably love it.
“Oh aye, you communicating with spirits or something now?” John says, one eyebrow raised. “Go on, give me a reading.” Paul’s filled with momentary relief that it’s not been taken seriously, but it quickly dissipates upon realising that when JFK does get shot, there’s going to be some interesting questions asked of him. He shakes the thought off – that’s a problem for another day.
“Getting a spirit coming in for a daft twenty-three year old…” Paul says, squinting and moving his hands around in a mysterious manner.
“It’s for you, Ringo,” John says.
“Ha ha,” Ringo says sarcastically.
“Ho ho,” John replies, equally dry.
“Ha,” George inputs.
“Ho,” John responds.
Paul turns to look out of the window, tuning out the ensuing conversation, willing away the nauseous feeling that hasn’t quite left his throat since the day he woke up in his old bedroom. He watches blocks of flats merge into flat open fields as the car rattles out of London and into the Midlands, every synapse in his brain working overtime to come to terms with what logically Paul knows must be true.
Suddenly, Paul yelps and recoils from the window. The other three stop their conversation, alarmed.
“Sorry,” Paul mutters. He’s had enough of them thinking he’s insane. “Just…saw my reflection. Startled me.”
“Think how we feel, mate,” John says, and the conversation Paul had interrupted slowly picks up again.
God, Paul thinks, staring at his reflection again and bringing his hands to his face in wonder. His eyes are so wide, so round, and his eyelashes long and dark, fanning out over his pale skin when he lowers his eyes. His skin is soft, unblemished, no deep wrinkles and sagging jowls after years of wear and tear. His hair is dark, so much darker than he remembers it being, matched by arched eyebrows that frame his big, round eyes. And his lips are so full; he touches them gently, amazed that he never realised just how fucking pretty he was. He’d always resented the light-hearted teasing that he looked like a girl, but now…
He’s snapped out of his reverie by a nudge to his shoulder.
“Want me to take a picture so you can wank over it later?” John asks.
“Sod off,” Paul says, shoving him back. “I’m just…so young.”
“Aye, that you are,” John says. “Back in my day, we took people to Paris for our twenty-first birthdays. Your generation just…what was it you did? Threw a huge party and got blackout drunk before it even started?” Paul groans, queasy stomach twisting at the vivid memory from fifty-seven years ago.
“Don’t, I feel sick,” he warns. John grins.
“We’re only ‘bout fifteen minutes out of Liverpool,” he says. Paul’s heart starts racing.
“Oh, fuck,” he whispers without thinking. He hadn’t even thought about the fact he’d be seeing his dad again, after God knows how many years. John frowns at him.
“Paul,” he says, and he sounds concerned.
“I’m fine, sorry,” Paul says, waving it aside. John’s frown doesn’t let up.
“You’re not,” he says. “What’s got into you, eh? You take something you shouldn’t’ve at my birthday?"
“No,” Paul says, “‘m fine.” He says it a little more insistently this time.
“Right, well,” John says. “Didn’t know ‘fine’ looked like thinking you’re dead and passing out every time someone spoke to you then spending three days in a hospital.”
“Maybe you’ve never been fine then,” Paul retorts. “Should try it some day, it’s a right laugh.”
“You’re daft,” John says, shaking his head. “Don’t know why we keep you around.” Paul grins.
“I write the hits,” he says, and he definitely earnt the shove he got for that.
---------------
Paul’s heart is thudding by the time he gets to his all-too-familiar front door. He knocks twice, and hears his father taking his leisurely time getting from the living room to the hallway to answer the door.
“Paul!” he exclaims, when he opens the door, looking simultaneously concerned and pleased. “Are you alright? I had a phone call from Brian after you collapsed here. Apparently some funny business with you thinking you were dead? And they sorted you out in a London hospital?”
“Yeah, dad,” is all Paul can manage, a lump suddenly stuck in his throat. His father looks relieved.
“Well, come in then, lad,” his dad says, standing aside, and Paul lugs his suitcase through the doorway into the narrow hallway. His dad shuts the door behind him, and Paul hesitates for a moment.
“You alright, Paul?” his father asks.
“Dad,” Paul says. “God, it’s you."
“‘Course it’s me,” his dad says. “Now get that stuff upstairs, I want you down here to lay the table for tea.” His face takes on a look of slight discomfort, as though discussing something extremely unsavoury. “John rang, said he’s been ordered to stay the night with you in case something happens. You know I’d much rather stay with you, Paul, you don’t need that lad around here…”
“No, dad, it’s alright,” Paul says, still slightly dazed. He’s not really taken any of that in, but vaguely files away why the hell is John coming? in the mental box labelled ‘Think About Later’ which is currently overflowing with panicked questions about the past and future.
“Well, get a move on, then,” Paul’s dad says when Paul doesn’t move. Paul shakes himself out of it.
“Right, yeah, sorry,” he says, dragging his bag up the stairs as his father disappears into the kitchen below.
He gets to his bedroom, dumping his back unceremoniously on the floor, and immediately sinks onto the bed.
Christ. He’s in the past. He, Paul McCartney, who is actually seventy-eight years old, is in his twenty-one year old body in 1963.
What the fuck is he going to do now?