A bunch of sort-of-related ficlets. One for each song. J/P
Paul hates meeting with the accountant. It used to be fun, watching their fortunes grow and feeling the subtle glow of success. Now it's just crap. Paul sighs as the other three arrive. Gives them a nod.
The accountant comes in with buckets of sweat just pouring off him. Paul almost pities him. Poor man. John glances over and they give each other looks of sympathy. It doesn't look good. Not good at all.
It turns out to be every bit as hellish as Paul expected.
George really needs to learn how to shut up. The quiet Beatle, Paul's arse.
It's on a gray morning that Paul finds the small church and the cemetery. It looks alone and somewhat decrepit. To Paul, it seems sad. Like it needs someone to discover it's secret.
He walks among the tombstones, noting the names and the dates. They're old, very old. Abandoned. One grave stands out in it's blankness. "Eleanor Rigby." There are no other words or dates, and Paul wonders who or what will remember him after he's gone. Whether he will be.
He traces a finger over the letters of her name and whispers, "You won't be forgotten, I promise."
i'm only sleeping
John sleeps like the dead. Anywhere he can. Paul thinks that it has to do with the infamous Lennon energy, but doesn't question it.
John tends to sleep the most when their traveling. The movement soothes him, he says.
Paul doesn't mind it at all. He likes watching John sleep, likes watching John's chest rise and fall, likes the feel of John's head on his shoulder. He leans against the window himself, and watches cloud patterns change outside. John shifts a little, his nose facing toward Paul's neck.
Paul smoothes John's hair gently and continues to watch the world go by.
love to you
George likes India. This was obvious from the moment George mentioned that he'd like to bring a sitar into the recording studio. Paul likes and respects George's appreciation for the culture. He really does. He just wishes that George wasn't quite so enthusiastic about it.
He also wishes that Ringo was here instead. Ringo's a much better listener than Paul, who wishes he hadn't mentioned that the sitar was interesting sound, and that George should probably incorporate it into his songs.
He's rescued by John, who pops in to ask George for help. He winks at Paul as he leaves.
here, there and everywhere
Paul loves the moments between sleeping and wakefulness. It's those moments when he's the most creative, the most free to make anything.
Today, at that moment, he just feels like being lazy. The sun is out; he can feel the warmth on his eyelids. It's actually rather annoying. Paul rolls over and bumps into something warm. John. The other man grunts at being jostled, but begins snoring after Paul shifts back.
The sun creeps further in, and Paul moves closer to John. They bump again. John wakes up this time.
"Morning," he mumbles.
"Morning," Paul mumbles back.
Neither moves away.
Ringo needs a song. Paul knows this. There's a template for each album. One of the items (right behind "Paul may only have one excessively slow song per album.") was that Ringo needed to sing something.
There's a moment when Paul thinks of handing the entire song over to John and be done with it. Not likely, as John seems to be avoiding any responsibility working on it now.
Ringo wouldn't want a terribly serious song, Paul knows, one just ridiculous enough to cover his limited range. One that would appeal to kids. Ringo liked kids. About a submarine, perhaps...
John talks nonsense right before he falls asleep.
"I know what it's like to be dead," he mutters into Paul's shoulder.
"No, you don't."
"Yeah, I do. She said."
Paul doesn't pick up the name John says. The sound is muffled by his shirt.
Right, Paul thinks. John nods off for a bit. His head rests at the crook of Paul's neck.
When he returns to consciousness (though even that title is stretching it), John mumbles, "I know what it's like to be sad."
"You're completely off your rocker, Lennon," Paul whispers and drops a kiss on his head.
good day, sunshine
John pulls Paul against him as they try to cross the road. Neither has the coordination to stand up straight, so they just sort of lean on each other. A car whizzes by, nearly hitting them. John raises a fist and shakes it at the retreating taillights.
"Oi! Watch where you're going!" he yells, and breaks into giggles. Paul joins him.
"Pro'bly shouldn't have stayed in that pub too long," he ponders. He tries to get up onto the sidewalk again and fails.
"Nah," John says.
They collapse onto the curb and watch the morning sun rise over the buildings.
and your bird can sing
"So, is it a deep, meaningful song about your relationship with some random bird?"
"You don't think it is?"
"It sounds like you're telling her off."
"Well, I can so that too, can't I?"
"Of course, she really does deserve it."
"I'm almost scared to see what you'll write about me after a falling out."
"This is pretty tame, actually."
"What do you mean?"
"I could've mentioned that she gave bad head."
"The BBC would slaughter us if you ever wrote that."
"The entire song's one big metaphor, anyway."
"I don't want to know what the 'swinging' is."
for no one
Mornings in the McCartney household (which can only be considered Paul and whichever girl or mate decided to spend the night) are generally quiet. Today is no different.
John comes into the kitchen with a grunt. Paul gives him a nod, and hands him a cup of coffee. John takes it, plops down into a chair, and pulls out a pack of fags. He lights up, and Paul thinks he can see the smoke hang in the morning light.
John gets up to gather his things, and goes out the door without looking back. Paul doesn't watch.
Ringo is the kind of bloke who knows people. Sure, they all know people, but Ringo knows people who know people who know people.
Half of his contacts are shady, of course. Drug dealers, car dealers, loan sharks. That doesn't stop them from going to him when they need help.
Paul needs some good Predulin. The pot is doing him well right now, but he wants a good rush, the energy of some excellent uppers. They can afford it.
"Ringo! Know where I can get some uppers?"
Ringo just smiles and pulls a piece a paper out of his pocket.
i want to tell you
Paul doesn't really know how to feel about LSD. Sure, he's not exactly shy around drugs, but this is big stuff. This isn't a few herbal cigarettes shared between friends. Fucking up his brain might be preferable to watching John and George together, comparing trips, though.
He composes the words in his head. "John, can I have some acid?" "John, got some spare acid?" "John, stop excluding me from the 'I've had psychedelic trips' club and give me some fucking acid."
He sits back and tells himself that the right opportunity will present itself. Sometime. Maybe. In the future.
got to get you into my life
Paul loves Bob Dylan. In a perfectly platonic way, of course. The folksinger introduced them to the wonders of Marijuana.
It was an interesting night. They were all pretty excited to be meeting him, and the discussion was pretty interesting. Paul still doesn't understand just how anyone could write anything about getting high in a song called "I Want to Hold Your Hand", but then again, Bob Dylan did like being the eccentric.
The first inhale was good, really good. Incredibly good, in fact.
"We've got to get more of this," Paul had told the others. Their glazed smiles agreed.
tomorrow never knows
John's having a trip in front of Paul's eyes. This is not a Good Thing. Paul has no idea if John took it intentionally to fuck with Paul's head, or if he just randomly felt like having a hit and forgot that Paul was coming over. John just grins crazily and yells something about the walruses.
Paul doesn't know how to deal with this, and he hates John for putting him in this position. I'm not fucking ready to deal with your shite pseudo-ultimatum, he wants to say. John manically laughs.
Paul gets up and walks out the door.