Chapter Text
"Morning, Paul," Ringo said. "Christ, you're early."
"Good mornin’, Rings," Paul said. "Nice to see you, too, luv."
Paul stopped doodling on the piano as Ringo handed him a steaming mug.
"There you go," Ringo added. "Milky and sweet, just like you. Careful, it’s hot."
"Ah, thanks!" Paul said. "It's perfect.”
Paul had been at Studio Two since seven, working out chords for something new. By the time anyone else was scheduled to show up, he had figured out most of the opening chord progression.
"Whatcha doin'?" Ringo asked, peeking over Paul's shoulder.
"Oh, just somethin’ I came up with late last night. I wanted to get it down before I forgot.”
"You're incredible, Macca," Ringo said, shaking his head. "I don't know how you do it. I really don't."
One by one, the studio began to bustle with other people as sound engineers and assorted employees arrived for work. An instrument technician was busy shifting a cable from one side of the live area to the other. The amplifiers hummed softly in the corner. George Martin was visible through the glass of the upper control room. George Harrison wandered in, guitar case in hand, just as Paul and Ringo finished their tea. The big studio clock ticked steadily toward eight. Everyone was there except John.
Paul glanced at the studio door, then back at his mug. His knuckles were almost white where he was clutching the handle.
"Give him till half eight," Paul said. "Probably having a fag and a cuppa and chatting up all of the birds. He loves that."
Yeah, Paul thought privately. He does love that. And if he could do it in front of me? He'd love it even more. Bastard.
Paul looked up to find Ringo quietly watching him. The drummer didn’t need actual words. He heard him anyway.
Five minutes later the studio door opened and John walked in, smiling and carrying a battered guitar case.
"Sorry, lads," John announced. "Was lookin' for this one and it took a while. S' alright. Knew our Paul could handle everything."
George glanced at Ringo as if he'd just won a wager. Ringo lifted one eyebrow and smiled. At least John didn’t look hung over.
Paul exhaled before he realized he’d been half holding his breath.
John set the guitar case down and pulled off his coat, his eyes locked on Paul. It was a silent exchange everyone pretended not to see. Paul’s eyes were drawn to the scarf around John's neck, a gift Paul had given him for Christmas years ago. The message was clear.
I'm here. We're both here. Things are good.
John slung his guitar over his shoulder as George Martin came down the stairs.
"Good morning, John," the older man said, extending his hand. "Hope you're ready. You've got a good one just waiting."
"I know, Mr. Martin. Let's get on with it, yeah?"
Ten minutes later they were all at their mics. George tuned, Ringo settled behind the kit. The engineers were ready in the sound booth. John counted them in and they were off, the lyrics of You're Gonna Lose That Girl echoing through Studio Two.
The first take died when an engineer missed a switch. Take two didn't go much longer before George Martin called a sudden halt.
"John, you're rushing. Pull back a touch and you're perfect, eh?"
John rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, yeah. Christ, I get it. Keep your knickers on. I'm sure Macca was about to tell me the same thing."
Paul winced internally. Said nothing.
Take three was completely clean. The beat was perfect, the harmonies tight. You're Gonna Lose That Girl echoed off the studio walls in all the right places. For three minutes they were all nineteen again. On the second chorus, John glanced across at Paul and grinned, just for him. Paul smiled back. They both knew this was the one.
As they finished the last chord, Martin's voice drifted over the talkbacks. "That's the one, boys! That's it!"
Paul was still smiling. George looked relieved. Even John was grinning from ear to ear.
Ringo heard it first – an odd, almost distant sound of splitting wood and shifting metal. He frowned. George stopped to listen. Paul looked at John, puzzled. John's eyes went to Ringo who was now staring directly overhead.
"Look out!" someone shouted from the control room.
Everyone looked up in unison as the light hanging directly over the mics ripped away from the ceiling. The enormous fixture tore an acoustic tile away from its frame, scattering plaster and dust in all directions as it plummeted toward the floor.
And then Paul saw it. John was standing directly underneath the falling fixture.
"John!!" Paul shrieked.
Paul didn't think. He just moved – dropping his Hofner and racing forward, he shoved John hard with both hands. John flew backwards, landing on a beat-up studio couch as the falling debris landed on Paul instead.
For one second, the whole world went quiet. No one breathed. No one moved. The dust hung in the air like it, too, was waiting.
And then, "PAUL! Oh fuck, Paulie."
John's voice tore through the silence. He was off the couch and on his knees before the last piece of debris had settled, grabbing at plaster and metal – coughing, hands already bleeding. The scarf Paul had given him years earlier lay abandoned on the floor behind him.
"Mal! Someone! Help me get this shite off him! Get it off!"
Mal Evans appeared suddenly beside John. Latching onto the largest piece of metal with both hands, he lifted it completely off Paul and moved it aside. Paul's shoes were visible at one end of the debris pile. Part of a bloody arm could be seen through the torn acoustic quilting that had wrapped itself around the lighting fixture.
George was busy following a trail of plaster and wiring that ran from Paul's arm to his shoulder, and eventually to his face.
"Here!" George shouted, working faster.
John moved next to George, the two of them digging and clawing their way through the dust and debris together. John knew they had found Paul when he spied a patch of dark hair poking up through the pile of white plasterboard.
"I see him! Hurry!" John yelled.
Ringo was out from behind the drums, running to help as George Martin raced down the staircase. A sound engineer was calling an ambulance. People filtered in from every corner of the studio - some terrified, some weeping - all staring in disbelief at the center of the room.
Three minutes ago they were nineteen. And now? One of the biggest pop stars in the world was buried under a pile of dangerous and filthy debris.
The room darkened as the engineers cut the power. With live wiring dangling from the rafters, it was too dangerous to leave it on until everything else was sorted. The studio floor was littered with chunks of broken glass, pieces of metal, and stray screws. It was a full blown disaster in every direction.
George was the first to uncover Paul's face. Blood was trickling from somewhere near one eyebrow before sliding down the back of his neck. He coughed - weak, then harder. Paul wanted to open his eyes, but he couldn't quite manage it. His eyelids only fluttered instead. Wheezing – he panicked and tried to sit up.
Did I get to him in time?
It was all Paul remembered. Then nothing.
George and John kept working, gradually uncovering one full side of Paul’s face.
"There you are, Paulie," George soothed, slipping into his friend's childhood nickname. "You're gonna be alright," he added, brushing the dirt and debris away from Paul's eyes. “We’ve got you, luv. We’ve got you.”
"Paul," John exclaimed. "Paul, can you hear me, babe? I promise we're getting you out of this mess."
"Can he hear us?" John asked, looking anxiously at George.
“I’m not sure,” George said. “But I don’t think we should move him until the ambulance gets here.”
John kept digging, clearing rubble and shards of plaster away from Paul’s face. Ringo and Mal were helping from the other side of the pile. Little by little they were successfully digging him out.
“He’s breathing,” Mal exclaimed, saying out loud what no one else could dare to think.
“Thank God,” John whispered. And kept digging.
The sirens grew louder in the background until they went silent right out front. In a flurry of noise and activity, the studio doors flew open moments later as the ambulance crew arrived.
“Give ‘em room!” George Martin ordered. “Step back and let them in!”
George took one more glance at Paul’s face before grabbing John’s shoulder and dragging him away.
“Come on, John. Just this far,” George said, trying to calm him. “You can be right here - ‘s ok.”
The first medic dropped to knees next to Paul and immediately began checking for a pulse.
“He’s alive,” he said curtly. “Help me turn him. We need to get him on his back.”
With one of the medics bracing Paul’s neck along with Mal’s muscular assistance, the three of them were able to carefully maneuver Paul onto his back.
“Yeah, that’s good,” the medic said, pulling out a stethoscope. “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here.”
The medical team worked quickly applying oxygen tubing to Paul’s face, attaching a blood pressure cuff, and listening to his lungs while one of them started a drip. Paul’s eyelids fluttered open and reclosed as he experienced a hard coughing spree. Wheezing heavily, Paul tried once again to sit up, but Mal held him down by his shoulders.
“Don’t move, Paul,” Mal ordered gently. “These fellas have some things they need to do first.”
Working fast, the medic pulled a pair of scissors from his belt and efficiently sliced open Paul’s shirt from the hem to the neckline. Shoving the severed cloth aside, he examined Paul’s chest where a few minor abrasions were visible near his left collar bone. There was an ugly, but shallow gash near the middle of his sternum. Beyond that, there were no other obvious external injuries.
The medics applied sticky leads to his chest for a quick look at his heart rhythm. Satisfied with what he saw, the lead technician turned to speak to George Martin.
“Nothing too urgent by the look of it, but I can see what happened here,” he said, glancing up. “All things considered, he’s looking better than I feared, but we can’t dally around getting him to Casualty. A doctor needs to look him over as soon as possible, so let’s get him on the trolley. We need a little more information from someone, and then we need to be off.”