Chapter Text
New York
November, 1979
The photo was in one of those silly magazines made for teenagers. The type of magazine they used to make fun of, the four of them. “Get Beatle George’s Hair Tips!” or “Bedroom Secrets From Paul’s Long Lost Love!” They’d laugh about how rubbish the articles were, how everything was made up.
Not the kind of magazine John would normally buy. This particular one was a fan magazine with “Insider Photos From Paul McCartney’s Wings Tour” splashed across the cover. He didn’t know why he’d bought it, really. He’d seen it at the newsstand when he went to get ciggies; he’d rolled his eyes at it. Who cares about Insider Photos From the Wings tour?
So, no, not the kind of thing he’d normally buy. Just, he’d flipped through it a bit, out of curiosity, and they’d had some decent photos.
The thing was, John had heard from Elton – who’d heard from some undisclosed source– that Linda had decided she didn’t like men anymore. She liked women now, apparently. And obviously John didn’t care anything about Paul and Linda and what was going on with their marriage. But…well, that would be funny, wouldn’t it? Sex God Paul McCartney married to a woman who wasn’t interested in his magical cock.
So John had bought the magazine, only out of curiosity about Linda. He bought it, and he brought it back to the Dakota, and well, he might as well flip through it, since he bought it, right? Might as well take a look at Linda, see how she looked, that was all. See if she’d cut her hair short or was wearing men’s clothes or something.
Linda wasn’t in the first picture, though. It was of Paul alone, standing on stage with his Rickenbacker. He was looking out to the crowd, a big smile on his face, a smile so big that the crinkles around his eyes were prominent, the skin bunched up into folds of skin on his otherwise flawless face. Paul would hate this photo, John knew. He was self-conscious about those eye crinkles, thought they were ugly, thought they made him look old. John absently ran his finger over the crinkles by Paul’s left eye, as if he could smooth them out. To make Paul happy.
John pulled his hand back abruptly and shook his head vigorously. None of that now.
He turned to the next page, and that’s when he saw it.
It was a photo of the whole band, sitting in a dressing room backstage. Linda and Paul were next to each other, on a sofa, Linda’s hand casually draped over Paul’s knee. John squinted at Linda. She looked normal enough. No obvious signs of Sappho. John scowled, disappointed. Elton was always talking shit, half of what he said was made-up anyway.
Of course, Paul was the centre of the photo. And, well, if John was going to be fair about it, he’d say that Paul looked good. He looked really good.
It was a little unjust, actually, how good he looked. No one should be allowed to look that good and be such a heartless cunt. Shouldn’t there be some kind of cosmic retribution? John made a mental note to tell George that karma was bullshit.
John was so fixated on Paul and his perfect face that he almost didn’t notice. He didn’t care much about the rest of the band, after all. But eventually his eyes drifted down the sofa and there was Denny Laine, next to Paul, looking at Paul like he thought Paul’s existence could cure all the world’s problems. And then John nearly choked on his coffee.
Denny Laine was wearing John’s blue jumper.
What the fuck?
John lit a ciggie to clear his head, because, was he seeing things? He looked at it again.
No, he wasn’t bloody seeing things. It was John’s blue jumper. He’d recognize it anywhere. It was a blue jumper with green trim around the collar and the sleeves. He’d bought it himself, a rare thing during the Beatle era – usually someone would buy clothes for them, would arrange an array of options for them to choose from – but he’d bought this himself, on Bond Street, had seen it in a shop and liked it. In early 1967, he thought. Maybe late 1966.
He’d worn it for a while. Through that winter, at least. It had looked good on him, he thought. He remembered Richie saying he liked it once.
John didn’t remember exactly when he’d left the jumper at Paul’s. He spent a lot of time at Paul’s house on Cavendish Ave during the summer of 1967. Stayed over, wanting to grab a sliver of Paul’s exciting city life, grab a sliver of Paul’s attention. Maybe it was then? Maybe an unseasonably cool summer night when they were making Pepper? Or maybe into the Autumn, when it was cooler? He’d still been at Cavendish a lot that Autumn.
He couldn’t remember. But at some point, he’d left the jumper at Paul’s, and Paul had started wearing it. And that wasn’t unusual, not really. They’d always shared clothes over the years, or bought the same things. They’d always had similar taste – all of them, but John and Paul in particular.
So it wasn’t something John had particularly clocked at first, or found notable, that Paul had started to wear his blue jumper.
But the thing was, Paul kept wearing it. He wore it when things were still good with them, right after Pepper, when it hung too big on Paul’s lithe frame. And he continued to wear it, wore it after things started to go bad between them. He wore it after they’d stopped writing together, when bringing songs into sessions felt like a competitive sport rather than a collaboration. He wore it after India, when things had gotten tense for no discernible reason, when the distance between them had started to feel insurmountable.
And it had meant something to John, to see Paul in that jumper even when they couldn’t talk to each other. When John knew that Paul was done with him, thought John was more trouble than he was worth, and was ready to pull the plug on the whole thing. When John was clinging to Yoko like a lifeline because he knew that Paul was going to end it all at any moment. It had meant something to John, to see Paul in his jumper. Connected to John, even through the worst of it.
When the Beatles broke up, John hadn’t thought to consider what Paul had done with it. Through the divorce, the lawsuit, the song lyrics, the angry letters. It hadn’t occurred to John to wonder what Paul had done with his jumper. There were too many other things to think about.
But now? Now John knew what Paul had done with it. He’d given it to Denny fucking Laine.
Denny Laine was sitting in the dressing room, on a Wings tour, smiling at Paul, and he was wearing the jumper that John had left at Paul’s house and let Paul keep.
Paul had given it to Denny like it didn’t matter. Because it probably didn’t matter to Paul, did it? Right. John allowed that thought, that realisation, to wash over him, and for a split second, he couldn’t breathe. It had been almost 10 years. He couldn’t believe that the thought of Paul’s ambivalence could still hurt him like this. After 10 fucking years.
No. No. He wasn’t going to do this again, wasn’t gonna turn back into sad, queer John, in love with his extremely not queer best mate.
He slammed the magazine shut and threw it onto the coffee table. Fuck that, then. Enjoy my jumper, Laine, you absolute cunt .
John got up, went to the kitchen and turned the kettle on. He looked at the clock; Sean and Helena would be back for dinner soon. Plenty of other things to do. Plenty of other things to think about.
Right.
It was just sad that Wings was such a pathetic band that they had to wear cast-off clothing, wasn’t it? They must not be making any money with that horrible music. Why didn’t Denny fucking Laine buy his own clothes?
Laine had toured with them a bit, in ‘65, with the Moody Blues. All John remembered about him was how pathetic he was, mooning after John and Paul, wanting to be their mate, learn their songs, dress like them . Maybe he was such a psycho Beatles wannabe that he’d nicked the jumper from Paul and Paul didn’t know how to get it back.
“Ha,” John muttered to himself, “As though Paul doesn’t always get whatever he bloody wants.” He scowled.
Stop it, you don’t care.
But why did Paul give Laine the jumper? Were they that close? Had Paul left it at Laine’s house, the way John had once left it at Cavendish? John had always assumed Laine was just part of Paul’s back-up band, almost like a session musician. He hadn’t thought it was – well, he didn’t think they were mates . In and out of each other’s houses. Sharing clothes. The thought made John a little queasy.
He switched off the kettle abruptly and stomped back into the living room. He picked up the magazine and flipped recklessly until he got to the page with the picture of Denny Laine wearing his jumper. Yup, it was still there. He squinted at it and scowled.
This wasn’t acceptable, actually.
Because you know what? That was John’s goddamn blue jumper. He’d paid for it, hadn’t he? With money from being a fucking Beatle, money he’d earned from the band he’d started and led and wrote songs for. He wasn’t some hanger-on like Denny fucking Laine.
It wasn’t Paul’s jumper to give away. John was the rightful owner of that blue jumper.
“Fred!” he shouted, vaguely in the direction of the office. You really couldn’t say a lot about Fred, but at least he was never far. John heard him shuffle in, but continued to scowl at the photo, studying his old jumper. Laine didn’t really have the shoulders to fill it out. It looked frumpy on him. It had looked much better on John and Paul.
“I need you to get me a Wings tour schedule,” John told Fred. “I need to know where they’re, you know, Wingin’ over at the moment.”
“A Wings tour schedule, right,” Fred repeated blankly. “Should I talk to Yoko first, or –”
The audacity . John finally looked up to where Fred was standing by the door, fidgeting with his sleeves.
John scowled. “Do you work for me or do you work for Yoko?”
Fred looked uncomfortable. “I’m not really sure, actually, I mean she interviewed me and –”
“Just get me the bloody schedule, Fred,” John snapped. He tore the page with the photo out of the magazine and shoved it into his pocket.
That was his jumper and he was going to fucking get it back.
London
December, 1979
Paul startled awake, sudden and unwelcome.
The phone was ringing. He squinted at the clock on his nightstand. 3 a.m.
Surely someone else could answer it. No one called at 3 a.m. to talk about how great things were going. If it was bad news, Paul would really rather not be the one to hear it first.
The phone kept ringing. Well, right. Linda and Bonnie had taken the kids to Peasmarsh tonight, Paul remembered. There wasn’t anyone else here to answer, then. Up to him. He reached for it.
“Hello,” he answered, his heart pounding.
“Hello, Paul?”
Paul wiggled a little closer to the phone, his brain catching up to the voice on the line.
“Denny?”
“Hey, man, I’m sorry to bother you at this time of night, but I think you better get over here.”
Paul rubbed his eyes and tried to figure out what the hell was going on.
“Over where? Your house? Why – what’s happened?”
“It’s just – well, I’ve had an intruder.”
Paul liked Denny well enough and so he took a deep breath and tried to be patient. Or tried, at least, not to be a total arse.
“Okay? Call the police then.”
“No – Paul, it’s... I don’t wanna call the cops – I think you should come talk to him.”
Paul’s short-lived attempt at patience was already wearing thin. Why would Paul get involved with an intruder at Denny’s house? Did he have to handle everything? It was 3 a.m., they had a show tomorrow night – well, tonight, he supposed – and he’d planned to spend most of the day writing. Plus, he needed to meet with their tour manager to talk about the Asia leg, not to mention there were a few things he wanted to repair around the house now that he was back in London for a few days. He couldn’t afford to be tired because Denny couldn’t deal with his own home security issues.
“You want me to talk to the intruder? He’s still there?”
“Yeah, he’s having a cigarette. I need you to come talk to him –”
Paul made a noise of annoyance. “Why would I –”
“Paul, it’s John.”
Neither of them said anything for a couple of seconds. And, well, by the normal conventions of conversation, Paul supposed, it was his turn to talk. It’s just that he was waiting for Denny to say something else, because was that supposed to mean something? John? One of the most common names in England? John who?
He was about to ask as much, but before he could, Denny clarified. “It’s your John.”
For a moment, Paul was so surprised he couldn’t speak. What ? He took a breath.
“John…Lennon?” Paul asked stupidly, as though your John could mean anyone else.
“Yeah,” said Denny, “He, uh, broke into my house. I found him rifling through my dresser drawers. He won’t tell me why.”
And that was… what ? That wasn’t possible. John was in New York. He’d have told Paul if he was coming to London, wouldn’t he? Not that that was the point.
Why would John break into Denny’s house? What the hell ?
“Okay, yeah, Denny, just keep him there,” said Paul. “I’ll be right over.”
He slammed the phone down and got out of bed.
Apparently John was back in England.
***
It must be drugs, Paul thought, as he climbed the stairs to Denny’s bedroom. He could hear John’s voice, the familiar cadence making his stomach tighten ever so slightly. John Lennon. His John. Was here, for some reason. In London. In Denny Laine’s house. At three in the morning. It had to be drugs.
Except, Denny wasn’t exactly someone you’d go to if you wanted drugs. He never even had any of his own grass, always got it off Paul. Not someone to travel across an ocean to get drugs from.
Did John need money? Surely not. Wasn’t Yoko meant to be some kind of financial mastermind or something? And if John did need money, why wouldn’t he come to Paul?
Keep your cool in there , he told himself. John knew how to push his buttons, Paul realised, but it was always better to show as little emotion as possible when dealing with him.
“I saw a UFO, you know,” Paul heard John say as he opened the door to Denny’s room. “Couple of years ago, from me balcony.”
“Yes, we know, John,” Paul said, as he walked in. “Everyone bloody knows. You only wrote it in the liner notes of your album.”
“Ah, did you buy my album, Paul?” John asked, casually, conversationally, from where he was sprawled out across Denny’s sofa, one leg slung over the arm – because he could never bloody sit anywhere properly – looking relaxed and nonchalant and not at all like someone who had just been caught breaking and entering.
Paul wasn’t going to answer that. On principle. He had, of course he’d bought Walls and Bridges, of course he’d bought all of John’s albums.
“Do you want to tell me what the fuck is going on, John?” It came out hostile, and he supposed he meant for it to.
“Well, Laine and I were just having a little UFO chat.”
Paul didn’t know why he was expecting to get a straight answer. He glanced at Denny, who was standing awkwardly by his bed, looking dazed and useless in his dressing gown. He probably wouldn’t be much help.
“I was asleep,” Denny explained, tentatively. “I woke up because I heard a noise. Turned on the light, and he was – John was rummaging through my clothing. I –”
“Thought you were in Brighton,” John mumbled. “Didn’t think you’d be here.”
What on earth. Wings had played in Brighton tonight, but they’d come to London after the show. Why would John know that?
“He wouldn’t tell me what he was doing –”
“Right,” John interrupted, “and then he called P.C. McCartney while I had a smoke, and I think that just about catches you up. Did you bring your handcuffs?”
Paul felt like screaming. John always did this. John was the one who was acting crazy, had broken into the house of a man he barely knew, was in a city he wasn’t supposed to be in, a country he wasn’t supposed to be in, was weirdly familiar with the Wings tour schedule, and somehow he was making Paul feel like the one behaving unreasonably.
“I mean, you wanna explain why you broke into his house?”
“The back door was unlocked, to be fair, so I’m not sure we can say I broke in, can we?”
Paul threw Denny an exasperated glance. Wings weren’t the Beatles, sure, but they were big enough that it was mad for Denny to leave his door unlocked. He turned back to John.
“Well, you weren’t invited, were you?” Paul wasn’t sure why he felt so irritated. This really didn’t have anything to do with him. Except, well, Denny had done the right thing, calling Paul. Denny wouldn’t be able to handle John on his own. Paul had really always been the best at handling John. Until Yoko, that is . He frowned.
And… John being in town and not telling him, that was a little irritating. The last time he’d seen John was when Paul had been in New York, and he’d come by the Dakota, hoping to hang out, play some music. John had turned him away - hadn’t even let Paul in the door. Even thinking about it now made Paul burn with residual humiliation. He’d had to smile and act like it didn’t bother him, had to turn and walk away like a rejected schoolboy.
“Paul, no offence, but this is between me and Laine.” John turned to Denny and waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and - wait just a minute.
Hang on. John was here, in England, at Denny Laine’s house, and hadn’t told Paul that he’d be in town. Was it possible that –
“Are you trying to recruit him, then?” said Paul, staring at John and flicking his head in Denny’s direction. Of course. John would love to take something of Paul’s, make Paul feel stupid. “You trying to poach him from me?”
John snorted, then furrowed his brow. “Are you serious? Why the fuck would I do that?”
“You’re making a new record,” Paul said, trying to work it out. “And you need another guitarist.”
John looked affronted. “I’m not making a record, and if I was, I’d get a better guitarist than Denny fucking Laine, wouldn’t I? Like, I don’t know, how about maybe George fucking Harrison?”
“Maybe he said no, so you thought –”
“There’s still loads of better options, I’d ask Eric –”
“You know,” Denny interrupted them, “I can hear you, I’m standing right here.”
Paul glanced at him, wondering if he should say something reassuring about Denny’s guitar skills. But Denny looked more bewildered than offended, and what could Paul possibly say? Surely Denny was aware he wasn’t as good on the guitar as George or Eric.
“Anyway,” John said, still acting indignant about the entire conversation, “I’d never poach a musician.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
Paul raised an eyebrow. “Sure, well. Tell that to Rory Storm.”
He’d meant it more as a way to win the argument than a joke, but John’s lips twitched for a moment, like he was trying to resist, but then he smiled, and oh, that’s right . It’s nice when John smiles .
“Poor sod,” he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “You’re right. I reckon we’re both musician poachers.”
Paul smiled, too, because a happy John had always been infectious. “I reckon we are.”
“I’m not sorry, either.”
“Oh, not even a little bit.”
“It wasn’t exactly hard.”
“Well, we offered him 25 pounds a week!”
“Plus all the birds he could –”
“Paul?” Denny interrupted again. “Should we…”
Right. He trailed off, but Paul got the gist. The gist was I called you over here to figure out why your lunatic ex-best mate was in my house, not to smile and banter with him the second he started to get nostalgic .
Paul schooled his face into something that he hoped was more intimidating. “Alright, John, cut the bullshit and tell me what you’re doing here.”
John slid his leg off the arm of the couch. “I’m trying to get to know your new band better, Paul. I’ve taken an interest in what Wings is up to, that’s all.”
Paul braced himself for the punch line of whatever joke John was about to make at his expense. I broke in to look for a good Wings lyric , except it was John, so it would be more clever than that. He stared, waiting.
“Well?” John asked. “Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
Paul blinked, once, twice. John looked back at him expectantly.
“You want to get to know me better?” Denny asked, sounding a bit panicked. “But you said you didn’t think I’d be home –”
“You got a booking tonight, right? Here in London?” John said to Paul, as though Denny hadn’t spoken. “Thought I might come watch.”
Paul knew when he was being taken in. Obviously John hadn’t broken into Denny’s house in the middle of the night to get to know him better. Obviously there was some other explanation that John was unwilling to tell them. He probably thought he was clever, distracting Paul with some fake interest in going to see a Wings show. Paul should tell him to fuck off.
But the thing was...Paul wanted John to come see Wings. Sure, the thought of it made his pulse race, the idea of John watching him from the crowd instead of next to him on stage, but he still wanted it.
John hadn’t exactly hidden how he felt about Wings, or any of Paul’s music since the Beatles, and, well, maybe Paul could prove him wrong. He wanted John to come and see Wings, see how good they’d gotten, how much fun the crowds had.
Maybe it would make John remember that he’d actually liked making music with Paul once.
He wondered if it was written all over his face, how desperate he still was for John’s approval. Well, no, probably not. Paul had perfected the art of hiding what he was feeling a long time ago, even from John. Especially from John. Still, he felt exposed, like John would be able to see that nothing had changed in 20 years – Paul was still the chubby kid in the white jacket desperate to impress with “Twenty Flight Rock.”
“Sure, John, we’d love for you to come to see Wings tonight,” he said calmly, ignoring the way his heart was hammering.
An odd expression passed over John’s face, an expression Paul couldn’t decipher.
“Okay, great, well, I guess that’s settled. Looking forward to it, then,” John said, his brow furrowed. He seemed somehow dissatisfied, as though he hadn’t just gotten away with an actual crime.
“And is…Yoko here? We’d love to have her there as well,” Paul said, and tried his best to sound convincing. I have no problem with Yoko. I have no problem with Yoko.
John shook his head. “No, no Yoko, it’s just me.”
Paul nodded, ignoring the relief he felt at that. It’d been 10 years, for Christ’s sake. I have no problem with Yoko.
“Okay then. I’ll sort out all the arrangements, get you a ride to the show. Where are you staying?” If he didn’t arrange the transportation, he knew he’d worry that John wouldn’t show up.
Again, John looked discomfited. “Ah, well, with Richie, of course. But you don’t have to –”
“No, of course I will. I’ll ring you at Tittenhurst to set a time,” Paul promised, fixing a fake smile to his face. So Richie had known John was coming to England, then. But no one had bothered to tell Paul. No one had thought that was important.
Paul moved toward the door, expecting John to follow him, but John didn’t move from the sofa. He kicked off his shoes.
“Alright if I kip here for a bit, Laine? I’m knackered and I’ve no idea if Rich is even in town.”
Denny’s eyes widened in surprise and he cast a frantic glance in Paul’s direction. “Uh, sure, John, that’s okay. I’ve got a guest room if you’d rather –”
Come to Cavendish , Paul’s treacherous brain supplied, but he ignored it.
“You haven’t been to Richie’s yet?”
“No,” John said, “Just got in tonight, didn’t I? And no sympathy from you, either, putting me through all them questions. I came over hill and dale to get here, you know.”
Paul bit his lip. “Did you? And what did Hill and Dale think of that?”
John laughed, and Paul hated how proud it made him.
“Well, they weren’t too pleased, Paul.”
They smiled at each other.
And…okay, so Richie hadn’t known John was coming to town, either. Paul hadn’t been excluded. Maybe no one had known. Okay.
Paul’s eyes ran over John’s face. He was overwhelmed with curiosity as to what John was doing in England, why he’d come to Denny’s, why he was coming to see Wings. But there was no sense in trying to get any of that out of him right now.
Paul shook his head and turned to leave. “I’ll see you tonight, Johnny.”
He ran down the stairs to the street, still smiling in spite of himself.
It was good to have John home.