Chapter Text
London in February was an absolute joke. It was only half-seven in the evening, but the sky had been pitch black since four, and the air felt like someone was pressing wet blocks of ice directly against John’s face.
John stood just outside the glowing, fogged-up windows of The French House, leaning against the damp brickwork and actively trying to stop his lungs from collapsing. He’d just sprinted the last three blocks from Leicester Square tube station because the Northern Line was, as usual, a completely useless piece of rubbish.
"Fucking hell," John muttered into his collar, shivering.
He looked down at himself, suddenly very aware that he was a total mess. He was wearing his favorite Stone Roses shirt, an old grey zip-up hoodie that had seen better days, and a heavy, rumpled wool coat that he hadn't bothered to button up. His bootcut jeans were slightly damp at the cuffs from splashing through a puddle on Dean Street, and his Doc Martens felt ten pounds heavier than usual. To top it off, his glasses were completely fogged over from the sudden shift between the freezing wind and his own hot breath.
He pulled the glasses off, wiped them aggressively on the hem of his hoodie, and shoved them back onto his nose.
He was twenty-five years old, a professional journalist for a major broadsheet newspaper, and he was currently fifteen minutes late to interview some up-and-coming filmmaker who probably thought he was God’s gift to British cinema.
"Right. Get it over with," John muttered to himself, bracing his shoulder against the heavy wooden door of the pub and pushing his way inside.
The French House was absolutely heaving. It was the kind of claustrophobic, loud, beautiful Soho chaos that John usually loved, but tonight it just felt like an obstacle course. The air was a warm, heavy soup of tobacco smoke, spilled stout, and the loud, overlapping chatter of actors, writers, and people pretending to be both.
John squinted through the haze, his hand instinctively reaching into his pockets to make sure his mini tape recorder and notebook hadn't fallen out during his sprint. His boss, Miles, had spent twenty minutes that morning yelling about how this McCartney bloke was "the next big thing" and how his actress wife, Jane Asher, was the toast of the West End. John had already resolved to dislike him on principle. Pretentious artsy types with famous wives were usually a nightmare to interview.
He scanned the crowded room, looking for anyone who looked like a director.
Then he saw him.
Sitting in a tiny, cramped corner booth under a dim wall sconce was a guy with incredibly messy, dark hair, wearing a slightly oversized black leather jacket over a turtleneck. John stopped dead in his tracks.
The first thing that hit him, aside from the fact that the bloke was entirely too handsome to be legal, was his eyes. Even from a few feet away through a smoky pub, Paul McCartney had these huge, wide, heavy-lidded hazel eyes that made him look like a tragic, beautiful silent-film star.
John felt a weird, sudden thump in his chest. It was the exact feeling you get when you think there’s one more step at the bottom of the stairs and your foot hits flat ground instead.
Oh, great, John thought, He’s a model. Brilliant.
John cleared his throat, pulling his shoulders back, and walked over to the booth, deliberately sliding his heavy frame into the opposite bench before he was even invited to sit. The leather seat gave a loud, low groan under him.
"You McCartney?" John asked, his voice a bit rougher than intended from the cold air outside. He didn't offer a hand yet. He just pulled his notebook out and dropped it on the sticky wood between them. "John Lennon. The Independent. Sorry I’m late, the tube is a disaster zone tonight."
Paul blinked, his easy smile faltering for just a fraction of a second as his wide eyes took John in, the messy brown hair, the sharp, defensive jawline, the round glasses, and the slightly damp coat. Then, a genuinely massive, charming smile broke across Paul's face.
"Don't worry about it, mate," Paul said, his voice surprisingly deep, carrying a soft, familiar Liverpool accent that John recognized instantly. "I only just got here meself. The traffic out there is mental."
Paul shifted, leaning his elbows on the table, bringing himself inches closer to John across the small space. His eyes flicked down to John’s chest, a spark of genuine interest lighting up his face.
"Nice shirt, by the way," Paul said, nodding at the Stone Roses logo peaking out from John's open hoodie. "Saw them at Spike Island a few years back. Unbelievable, weren't they?"
He looked down at his own shirt, then back up at Paul’s ridiculously perfect face.
"Yeah," John said. "They don't mind a tune. Right then. Let's see if you're as interesting as Ian Brown, shall we?"
Paul let out a loud, delighted laugh, leaning back into the booth. "Fire away."
John clicked his pen again, looking down at a scribbled title he could barely read. "Right, let’s talk about this short film then. The Docks. It just picked up the big prize at the London Film Festival, which means my boss is making me write this instead of going home. Visually, it’s all very nice and grainy. But tell me honestly, is the whole working-class struggle bit something you actually care about, or did you just think a bunch of rusty Liverpool cranes would look dead clever on a festival screen down south?"
"Well, Johnny," Paul said, setting the glass down with a soft click. "If I just wanted something clever to look at, I would’ve filmed my own face for twenty minutes. It certainly would’ve been cheaper."
John’s eyebrows shot up. Fair play.
"Those cranes are about ten minutes from where my granddad lived," Paul continued, leaning his elbows back on the sticky table. "I spent half my childhood running around there. The film is just about two young lads who work the night shift, trying to find something to do in a town that’s slowly running out of money. It’s mostly just them talking by the water. I wanted to shoot it before the developers tear it all down for luxury flats. So yeah, I care. Next question."
John nodded slowly, genuinely surprised by the lack of pretentious art-school babble. He made a quick, messy note in the margin of his pad.
"Alright," John said, tapping his pen. "So you've done the gritty short. What’s the actual goal here? Publicists are already calling you the next big thing in British indie cinema. Are you trying to get a proper feature-length film funded, or are you just going to keep making twenty-minute black-and-white projects for university crowds?"
Paul smiled, a bit more of his natural warmth returning. "I’m working on a script now, actually. A full feature. It’s a bit more surreal, a bit darker. We’re trying to secure the budget by the spring."
John flipped the page. "You're twenty-four. You’ve got a flashy film award, a career that's actually starting to do something, and you're living in a massive house in Primrose Hill. And you're married."
John leaned forward, tapping his pen against the table. "Twenty-four is a bit young to get properly locked down, isn't it? Jane Asher is the West End’s golden girl, she’s everywhere. Why the rush to play domestic bliss when you’ve barely left film school?"
Paul’s easy posture stiffened just a fraction under his leather jacket. His eyes flicked down to his half-pint, watching the foam settle against the dark glass, before he looked back up at John. The practiced, polite smile he probably used for publicists came out, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Jane’s brilliant," Paul said, his voice dropping a bit. It sounded like a sentence he’d repeated to a dozen different journalists already. "She works incredibly hard. We’ve been together since we were basically kids back home. It just felt like the natural next step."
"The natural next step for a couple of respectable suburbanites, maybe," John challenged, his tone dry. "Not usually the move for an avant-garde director trying to be the next Godard. Doesn't the whole 'husband of the famous actress' tabloid circus get a bit exhausting when you're just trying to be taken seriously?"
Paul let out a short, quiet breath, looking directly at John. "The tabloid stuff is rubbish, obviously," Paul said quietly. "They sit outside the gate, they follow her to the set. But that's just the circus. It's what you tolerate so the financiers actually give you money to make things. When I'm behind the camera, none of that upper-class rubbish matters. I'm just trying to make something decent." He paused, his hazel eyes locking onto John’s behind his specs.
John flipped a page over, not really looking at it. "So did you actually grow up around cinema, or did you just discover it at uni to impress people?"
Paul snorted, shaking his head. "My dad took us to the cinema in Woolton every Saturday. It wasn't high art. Just old Hollywood westerns and black-and-white noir stuff."
"Noir," John muttered, scribbling something messy on the pad. "Moody blokes in the rain. Figures."
"It’s about the atmosphere, isn't it?" Paul said, leaning his elbows back on the table. "You don't need a massive Hollywood budget if you know how to use shadows. When I got down south, I started watching Cassavetes. That's the stuff that matters."
John looked up from his notes, squinting through his glasses. He hated to admit it, but the bloke didn't sound like a total fraud. "Cassavetes. Alright. Could be worse."
Paul took a slow sip of his Guinness, his eyes tracking John over the rim. He set the half-pint down with a small click. "Alright, your turn then. You’re the culture bloke. What directors do you actually like, or do you just hate everything on principle?"
John let out a dry, short laugh, spinning his pen between his fingers. "I don't hate everything. Just most things."
"Go on then," Paul nudged, leaning in a fraction closer over the sticky wood. "Who's the genius in your book?"
"Godard," John said instantly, his tone sharpening with actual enthusiasm for the first time all evening. "Truffaut. The whole Nouvelle Vague crowd."
Paul smirked, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. "Right. So you like the French stuff. Figures you'd be a pretentious bastard about it."
"It’s not pretentious, it’s revolutionary," John shot back, a genuine, completely unforced smile finally breaking through his defensive scowl. "It’s better than watching some bloke in a cowboy hat for two hours."
"Hey, don't slag off John Wayne," Paul laughed, shaking his head.
John tapped his pen against his chin, looking at the very last line of his sloppy notes. " Anything you actually want to say to the high-brow readers of The Independent? Some grand message to the world?"
Paul let out a quiet snort, looking down at his glass. "Not really, no. Just... go watch independent films, I suppose. Support the local cinemas before they all get turned into bloody car parks. That'll do."
"Dead inspiring, McCartney. Truly," John muttered. "And what about the daily routine? What does a rising indie auteur actually do all day? Wake up at noon, smoke a few imported cigarettes, and stare blankly at a blank script?"
"I wish," Paul said, a genuine, tired laugh slipping out. He rubbed the back of his neck, his dark hair sticking up a bit from his fingers. "Usually I'm up at six because the dogs start barking. Then I spend about four hours on the landline arguing with producers who want to cut my budget in half. If I'm lucky, I get to spend the afternoon actually writing in the spare room. Otherwise, it’s just running errands around London or heading down to the West End to catch the end of Jane's rehearsals."
He looked up, his hazel eyes locking onto John’s. There was no practiced charm this time, just a direct, quiet stare.
"So what about you, John? Got a wife?" Paul nudged, a sharp, teasing grin breaking across his face. He tilted his head, looking John up and down with absolute nonchalance. "With your ugly mug, I'm guessing not."
John froze for a fraction of a second, his cigarette halfway to his mouth. A genuine, surprised laugh escaped him, rough and loud enough to cut through the surrounding pub chatter. He shook his head, his smirk widening as he flicked a bit of ash into the tray between them.
"Well, no I don't, thank God. Having someone leaning over my shoulder every minute of every day sounds like my own personal hell " John muttered, taking a slow sip of his own drink, his eyes never leaving Paul's face.
Paul flicked his wrist, checking his watch under the dim light of the pub wall sconce. He let out a quiet sigh, his easy posture tightening back up as reality caught up with him.
"Right," Paul said, sliding his arms out of the booth and grabbing his leather jacket. "I should probably start heading home. Jane’s getting back from the theater soon."
He looked across the tiny table at John, those wide hazel eyes completely steady. "I hope you got enough for your piece. If not, you can always call."
Paul reached over, grabbed a clean paper napkin from the dispenser on the table, and pulled a cheap ballpoint pen from his jacket. He slid the napkin across the sticky wood, leaving it right next to John’s notebook.
"Thanks for the pint, Johnny," Paul said, a faint, genuine smile returning to his face. He pulled a crisp ten-pound note from his pocket, dropped it onto the table next to the empty glasses, and slid out of the booth. He gave a brief nod, turned, and disappeared into the thick, smoky crowd toward the rainy Soho street outside.
John didn't move. He leaned back against the cracked leather of the booth, his eyes tracing the spot where Paul had just been sitting. His cigarette burned down to the filter between his fingers before he finally snuffed it out in the crowded glass ashtray.
He picked up the napkin, looking at the messy, loopy handwriting of Paul’s number, before slipping it carefully into his coat pocket.
Pulling his wrinkled notebook back toward him, John grabbed his pen and began aggressively jabbing at the paper. He didn't want to use the formal interview tape for the actual atmosphere; he needed to write down the small, human details while they were still completely fresh in his mind. He scribbled notes about the way Paul's accent sharpened when he got stubborn, the dark leather jacket, the raw way he talked about the Liverpool docks, and the sudden, guarded look that appeared whenever his suburban life in Primrose Hill came up.
After a few minutes, John slammed the notebook shut. He reached over, grabbed the clunky plastic tape recorder from the table, and pocketed it deep inside his jacket to make absolutely sure he wouldn't lose the tape on the tube ride back home.
John pushed open the pub door and stepped right into the freezing February drizzle. He yanked his hood up, shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, and started the fast, miserable walk down Dean Street toward Leicester Square station.
He pulled his Walkman off his belt, the cheap plastic housing was scratched to bits and held together with black tape.Suede started buzzing through the wire, he leaned his head back against the dirty glass window of the train, watching the black tunnel walls flash past.
He finally reached his stop and walked the last couple of blocks to his building.
The flat was the biggest place he could find on a journalist's salary, mostly because half his salary supported his booze and smoking habits. He unlocked the door and kicked it open with his boot.
It was a total mess. A double mattress sat right on the floor, the duvet shoved into a pile at the foot. Next to it were towering stacks of paperbacks and notebooks, and a bunch of random postcards taped to the wall. A massive Smiths poster hung crookedly over the desk. The desk itself was a disaster area, buried under crumpled drafts, half-finished cups of tea, and his heavy black typewriter. In the tiny kitchen corner, the sink was filled with nothing but forks and spoons. No plates. He lived entirely on takeout.
Out the back, a tiny balcony held two wooden chairs and the only table he could find that fit, looking out over the wet city.
John dropped his satchel, his face instantly softening. He kneeled down by the bed, reaching under a discarded jacket to scoop up a tiny black kitten. She was still a baby. He’d found her freezing under a dumpster outside the office two months ago and couldn't leave her.
"Alright, love?" John muttered, tucking her against his chest. He rubbed the top of her head. He’d named her Julia. After his mum.
John sat on the edge of the mattress, the cat curling up in his lap. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the wrinkled paper napkin. He stared at Paul's messy, loopy handwriting for a long time while the rain tapped against the big window above the bed.