Chapter Text
It had been only a few hours since he’d found out it had gone through, he’d known weeks if not months in advance of course, even said something about it on this new-fangled social media bullshit whatnot. Good for the cause you know, to have a celebrity endorsing such progress, but really it was very irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. He reckoned that Paul had said something too, though in a much more offhand way, likely in an interview when asked his thoughts on it, probably Ringo and George had said their piece in their own small way as well. Not like them to devote a whole post to it, but honestly John had a reputation to uphold as a longstanding member of the community, a famous fag, or half fag, bisexual, whatever, didn’t matter he hadn’t mentioned the matter in probably twenty years, he was sticking with it. Never denied it was the case with him at any rate. Didn’t matter than he probably hadn’t done anything with a man since the 70s or so.
The idea had struck him pretty much the first time he’d heard about the bill, a flash of brilliance on his part. It was maddening not to be able to tell anyone, when really it was the funniest thing that he’d ever considered doing in possibly his entire career. Divorce was a funny thing, it was even funnier when you were on very good terms with your ex-wife, made people say things, funny things. Made it a lot harder for gossip rags too. He would’ve told Yoko about his wonderful plan if he didn’t think she’d tell him off for it, or maybe she would’ve got it, who knows. They’d been divorced for dawning on twenty-odd years now. But he was a free man, was the point, and he could ask whoever he damn well pleased to marry him, and that’s exactly what he planned to do.
So, only a few hours after gay marriage became legalised in the United Kingdom, John found himself on the phone to a very sleepy Paul McCartney who was absolutely not expecting his call. Not after John had called him only a few days ago to ask some strange and almost unintelligible questions about gardening. Their calls were approximately once a week affairs, long ones, but roughly once a week. Commonly on a Monday, though he wasn’t sure how that tradition started. Two days was a much shorter interval. To be honest due to the time of day over there Paul might’ve initially thought someone died or something ridiculous, but John didn’t consider that.
Poor Paul, he had to explain he dealt more with the animal side of things when it came to outdoor stuff, that George was the one to call for any questions of the gardening sort. John hadn’t had the heart to explain it wasn’t George who wanted to hear from, who’s voice he’d been missing at the time and wanted desperately under any pretext to hear, to have one last normal conversation before he possibly threw their entire friendship into jeopardy again for the thousandth time. Yes, George would’ve grumbled but answered his questions in clear and well thought out ways with that horrible put-upon sigh he gave whenever John asked him about gardening, but he wouldn’t have laughed like Paul did, wouldn’t have put on those funny voices, wouldn’t have done anything in the way John actually wanted.
Now he was calling Paul again, lazing sideways across his couch because now you could call people from any position you wanted, the joys of the wireless phone, the internet even, and Paul had answered despite the late or early hour. He always answered. The conversation was short, to the point, John had a mission he’d been planning for months, and he had every intention to get the worst part of it over with quickly. It all depended on this bit after all, and it was strictly between the two of them.
“John?” His voice sounded across the line, sending a thrill through John who didn’t even bother to greet him, “I’ve put caller what’s it called on my phone now, It shows up with your name when you ring, so I know it’s you, no point being all sneaky and quiet,” Paul told him as he picked up, voice husky and deeper than usual, gave John a jolt.
He sniffed, audible over the line, “Don’t you know I’m working myself up to a very important question,” He said in his best impression of a posh school boy.
“Oh are you now?” Paul drawled, still not quite awake enough, rough with sleep, “And is it something about gardenias again? Seriously John what the hell got it in your head I know fuckin’ anything about flowers you knobhead-“
“Do shut up Paul, this could change the trajectory of our lives, don’t you know,” John repeated, beginning to doubt if it was a good idea at all. Too late now, he’d built up too much suspense, couldn’t put it off till another day. But he didn’t much fancy being hung up on as he likely would be.
He didn’t like the idea of it, Paul saying no, though it was most likely what he would do. Then it could simply become a funny story he and Paul told their respective friends and family in the months to come, to fade out of existence, rather than as he said, something to change their entire lives forever going forward.
A slight pause, probably wracking his poor sleep-deprived brain as to what it could be. John getting the band back together, no not quite the tone he'd use, John’s dying? Well it wouldn’t be a question then, what oh what could it be? John could imagine the train of thought quite clearly. “No, I don’t know because you’re not telling me, but you’ve got me curious now, go ahead,” Paul ended up saying.
“It was more fun when you were fighting me,” John told him, unable to fight the childish smile across his face as he heard the slight groan from the other end of the line.
Paul sounded increasingly annoyed, “Oh for god’s sake I had a shit sleep and now you’re doing all this what is it-“
“Will you marry me Paul?” John said, rather matter-of-factly.
Silence, a good solid few seconds of silence, John really did wonder if he’d been hung up on, almost taking the phone away from his ear to check, before he heard a croaky, “Come again?”
Now the trigger had been pulled it seemed rather simple, he could comply with the man’s request with ease, “I said, James Paul McCartney, or Sir Paul McCartney, would you do me the honour of becoming my husband? Would you marry me?” He said, a little more earnestly this time.
“What the fuck’s gotten into you?” Paul squeaked.
“Is that a no?” John said, still very polite and proper, feeling rather good about himself even. He’d been able to do it, pull it off in the end, always nerve wracking asking anyone a thing like that no matter how many times you ended up doing it and whom to.
Paul made some sort of indignant sound from the other end of the line and John heard the rustling of sheets, sheets? God had Paul picked this particular call up while still in bed? No wonder he was this bewildered, not exactly what you expected to hear from one of your oldest friends while still cocooned in bed sheets and in your pants, “I have to answer now? You know I think you’ll find I couldn’t do that even if I wanted to,” Paul told him, increasingly concerned.
“That’s where you’re wrong Paulie, we’re quite capable of it. Actually just this morning we became capable of it. That’s the occasion that marks my brilliant proposal,” John told him not without a certain air of pleasure about being ahead of the times.
“No need to sound so smug, you arse.” Too bad that Paul could read him so well. Probably why he wanted to marry him, though.
John sniffed, “Not a very polite thing to call your prospective fiancé,”
“I haven’t said yes yet,” Paul reminded him, and John could practically visualise the man’s facial expression, all pinched and confused, “Is this just a stunt then? To celebrate that we can, or, show off or something? We’re not exactly lovers, John,”
“I believe I have called you my estranged fiancé once, but that was when I was quite angry with you, so it doesn’t count, does it?” John replied absently, but Paul paid him no mind.
“Is it a stunt? Come on, I don’t, I don’t want to get married again as a joke John.” Paul said, firm, strict, and honestly John already knew this. He knew Paul better than practically anyone on this earth, of course he knew Paul believed in the institute of marriage, he loved to tell you so, any idiot on the street was half likely to know that, “You know how I care about that sort of thing, it’s serious, to me, you might laugh but it is. I didn’t want to marry again after Linda and I haven’t.”
Yes, even despite all those papers and press claiming he would, being seen with several lovely women both age-appropriate and not, yet no one had caught the elusive Paul’s eye. Would John catch his eye? Already had succeeded with Paul in many ways, this was just another thing for them. Not the momentous life altering thing it could be for other couples. What was one more way they were connected in the grand scheme of things?
“Yes, yes, I know it might be more suspicious coming from a double divorcee but I do want to marry you Paul,” John told him, before making a sort of hesitating sound and adding, “I admit it’s mostly a joke,”
“No kidding,” Paul replied dryly.
He continued, not put off, “But I’ve been thinking I’ve wanted to live with you again for a long time, I’ve missed seeing you, being around you.” John cut himself off, not really wanting to get into any sappy part of it, he didn’t know if Paul would appreciate that. It was the problem with Paul, no matter how well they could read each other’s tone they could hardly ever tell what the other truly desperately wanted. Would Paul be off put by his genuine affection? Or would he adore it? Remained to be seen, marriage could in fact allow him to test such questions, “I wished I could’ve bent down on one knee and all that toss but I don’t reckon my legs could’ve withstood it.” He joked.
“Mine could, probably, might be sore after though.” Paul responded, idle commentary, like their usual phone calls, there was nothing usual about their topic of conversation though.
“It’s best we don’t tempt fate,” John agreed. You know, when he came to think about it, they had discussed this before, many years ago, many many years ago really. Way before it was legal, possibly before it was even legal to be a queer to begin with. It was probably under the influence of some lovely LSD or perhaps under some wonderful hypothetical such as if he or Paul were the girl, would they be married? What would that be like?
He would’ve liked it then, if he could be married to Paul, as much as he liked the idea now. Could’ve divorced the man good and proper when it all went to shit. But it was only that now he could do something actionable about it, they didn’t need to be girls, or one of them a girl more accurately, they could be themselves, as they truly were, and they could get married. Prove themselves to each other in the most official way that humans had come up with, stick together properly, till death do they part.
“Look who’s the over cautious one now,” Paul teased lightly, before returning to his earlier point, “but John, even with all that, ‘course I want to see you, I have wanted to for ages, but it’s not the same as marriage. We’re not, you know, well at least I’m not gay. It’s gay marriage.” He almost stage whispered the last phrase, like some big terrifying secret.
“No need to sound like a scandalised grandma Paul, don’t get all homophobic on me now,” John frowned, it was an unexpected angle for the man to take, he had been very positive towards the progression of queers the last few years, if not decades, and had been friends with that sort perhaps even before John had been.
“Christ alive no, but I’m really not gay John.” Paul insisted.
John snorted, “You are too,” They’d talked about it, multiple times even, probably about 3 months ago in fact when Paul had admitted to finding Marlon Brando rather dashing as a wee lad and John had teased him mercilessly for it.
Paul made some sort of conceding noise, “Maybe a little, but certainly not officially.” No, never came out like old Johnny did in the 70s. Not that brave, would never damage his poor precious good lad image. Even if he had probably fooled about with Groovy Bob, had maybe kissed John a few times, had given several lads handies in back alleys and bathrooms. Didn’t count all that.
“Aye but even if you were very very straight proper and heterosexual, I bet the one man you’d throw all that away for, believably, would be me,” John told him, and he did earnestly believe it, it just made sense. Others would probably believe it too was the best part, some kind of magnetism between them, undeniable to even the most stuck-up old sorts.
It was Paul’s turn to let out an undignified snort, “Conceited little cunt, aren’t you?” He teased.
“It’s one of my best qualities,” John agreed.
“Fine. Say I consider this, the press would find out immediately, and I imagine that’s partially the point, are we doing a wedding? Proper one? Or eloping all secretly and letting it become some big scandal and then Richie comes to my place and kills me ‘cause I didn’t invite him.” Paul asked, he gave a sort of yawn over the line and John found himself even more endeared than he ever considered possible.
Also, incredibly angry he couldn’t have done this in person to see the look on Paul’s face right now, his messed up still brown hair, God Paul was hopelessly clinging to that hair, reasonably successfully too. They’d done that sort of new funny video calling thing, an assistant had showed him, and Sean reminded him now to do it too, and he’d seen Paul, properly seen him, all his expressions and the stupid t shirt he wore and his bloody kitchen. It was marvellous. It made him want to see him every day for the rest of his life, which is what he was now attempting to pull off.
“Oh, we have to invite George and Rich, or they certainly will kill us. Your lot of kids and stuff must know too, and Yoko and my lot. Everyone’s got to know.” John said, and while it was of course in part to enjoy the world’s reaction to two former Beatles getting lawfully wedded in holy queer matrimony, he did genuinely want to spend his life with Paul. He had been, all these years, but he wanted to do it properly now. The years they had left at least, he hoped to make it to at the very least their tenth wedding anniversary if all went according to plan.
“But would they know it’s not real?” Paul asked, making John frown.
“Ay you’re the one who’s being into the whole ohh marriage is forever and a special special vow promise whatnot,” John reminded him, before continuing the point, “it would be real. I’m saying it would be real.” He insisted.
“Obviously the marriage is real but once again John we are not and never have been together properly,” Properly was the operative word here, because really what they had, what they’d always had was always a sort of relationship. A sort of marriage. Partnership, relationship, sort of all blurred together when you’d kissed a few times, shared a bed, written more songs together than you ever knew what to do with, hated each other, loved each other, needed each other more than anything else in the whole universe. Lennon-McCartney.
It was genuine when he said, “You wound me Sir Lennon McCartney.” Though it came off as another joke.
“We’re certainly not hyphenating names,” Paul told him firmly.
“We'll come back to that. But I’m proposing Paul that we would be together, maybe not physically, I don’t need that sort of thing so much anymore- don’t laugh at me you prick-“ He hissed down the phone line as Paul gave him a very offensive giggle, “but if you do need that bit, if that’s the breaking point ‘cause you refuse to cheat under your vows then I suppose it’s not happening, it’s all off.” John said, trying desperately to sound unaffected by the idea, but hating it. He’d give Paul everything, if only the other man wanted to take it.
“I still never said yes.” Paul reminded him softly, probably hearing the distress in his voice, that pretend laissez-faire attitude. Bastard. Could read him much too well.
“You sort of did, when you started planning it out. Suggesting a proper wedding. Didn’t even have one of those with Linda.” John muttered, not meaning to go to for the jugular but doing it anyway. He did never mean to take it too far. Just sort of happened sometimes.
“Fuck off,” Paul told him quite plainly. He was good at that, he didn’t pretend what John said was alright anymore, told him straight out these days. Was a damn sight more useful than all that bottling up he used to do.
John winced, “Didn’t mean it badly, just the truth.” He said, a classic half-apology, Paul would understand.
There was another break of silence, and John really did think he’d put his foot in it this time, hung up on god and proper, not speaking for weeks, fuck maybe months, with this stunt. He hated the idea, but was beginning to come to terms with his likely fate when Paul spoke again with a sigh, “Fine. So we’re going to be in a relationship, man and, uh, husband and husband?” He stuttered over the phrase.
“You are agreeing now?” John asked, trying not to sound too eager.
“I suppose so,” He mumbled, then he took a shuddering breath, steadying himself across the hundreds of miles that separated them, “Yes, yes, I suppose so, John, despite all my better judgement I’ll marry you.” Probably wasn’t a good thing when your heart skipped a beat at their age. “But I reserve every right to call it off if I come to my senses anytime soon,” Paul said, stern, and he was a man of his word when he wanted to be.
“Yes sir,” John told him, “You know you’ve made me the happiest man in the world,” It wasn’t even much of an exaggeration.
“I very much doubt that.” Paul muttered, and John could hear him fussing with the bed again in the background, “Now can I go back to sleep? It’s awfully early,” John hadn’t bothered with time conversions; he usually did for Paul’s sake, but this was too important to delay to a more reasonable hour.
“I haven’t managed to fully wake you up from shock? I’m offended Paul,” John said, he was beaming from ear to ear, if he had the energy he’d be kicking his feet with glee.
“You have managed it, but I didn’t want to tell you that, really I want to let the dog out and make a cup of tea and brood over this for a while,” Paul groaned sounding further away, possibly stretching out his poor old sore limbs, “That satisfy your curiosity? Now for the key question, am I allowed to tell people or not.” He asked with a sigh.
“Not that I want to keep our engagement a scandalous little secret, I’m not ashamed of being with the fab Paul McCartney after all, goodness me isn’t it wonderful to have such a thing as a fiancé Paul?” He heard the other man stifle a laugh across the line. Though all of that fanfare would come in due course, he had more plans to put in motion, very important plans, “But I do think it would be wise to keep it under wraps for a while, I haven’t even bought you a ring yet, or made it to England.” He listed absently, not quite remembering that Paul wasn’t in on all those plans.
“Christ, you’re coming over?” Paul asked, more alert again.
John wished he could really give Paul the blank stare he desperately wanted to, watch how the man’s eyebrows raised and wrinkles showed themselves, “Obviously, we’re engaged.” He replied dryly.
“Fuckin’ hell, you’ll stay here then?” Paul’s voice went up an even further octave, making John bark out a laugh.
“Again that’s obvious Paul stop being an idiot.” He told him with endless affection.
A pause, then, “Don’t get me a ring, I won’t wear it,” Paul told him.
“You will too, and I will. Watch out.” John said with a hopeless smile, “Go make your tea, you twat. Ta ta for now,” He pulled the phone back from his ear before Paul had a chance to inundate him with more questions, again, all in due course.
“Bye John-“ Paul was summarily cut off by John pressing the big red button in the middle of his phone. That had gone much better than he’d expected, he couldn’t help a large and slightly concerning grin spreading across his face as the realisation set in. He burst into giggles actually, like some sort of manic schoolgirl.
He had succeeded in his half-baked, foolish, hairbrained scheme. He was engaged to Paul. He was going to marry Paul.