I Just Don't Understand
Title: I Just Don't Understand
Pairing: Paul/George
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 498
Disclaimer: Not real
Prompt: #6: Non-Beatle POV (Paul's dad)
The first time I found them alone, I thought there must be something funny going on. Well, what would you think if you came home to find your half-dressed son in his bedroom with one of his friends who was, it should be noted, wearing nothing but your son's dressing gown? And on a night when I'd told Paul I wouldn't be at home.
If I had ever suspected this of Paul, I would never have thought he’d choose George as his partner in crime. Lennon was supposed to be the bad influence, not little George Harrison. I tried to send George home but with no luck. Paul argued that it was still raining and that George lived "twenty minutes away from the fucking bus stop, dad".
"I've told you before not to use that language.”
"I don't care! You can't just tell my friends to leave. It’s not fair!" He shouted, gesturing furiously towards a cowering George.
"This is my house, son." I reminded him in a slow, quiet voice. "I can do what I want. When you're an adult-"
"I'm eighteen!"
"Then why don't you go and get yourself a fucking job!"
I was so angry, and scared to think that my son might be like that, but I couldn't confront him about it directly. The argument wasn't really about anything but it went on like that until we were both blue in the face from shouting. He said something. I'm not sure what, but it hit a nerve and I struck out at him. I hadn't planned to hit my son, but who does? I wasn't thinking straight.
He stood staring at me. I demanded to know what was going on. Paul came out with a story about them going for a walk in the park and falling in the duck pond. He said George couldn't go home because his clothes were wet and muddy. So they’d come back and had a bath. That was all.
The bath was indeed full of water. Paul hadn't bothered to empty it, of course. And, as usual, the floor was soaking. I’ve never known how he manages it.
"It's not a big deal, you know. We shared baths at our friend's place in Hamburg."
"Not at the same time, obviously." George said with a small smirk that disappeared quickly after I sent him a withering look.
But I believed their story, mostly because I wanted to. My son couldn't possibly be queer. I'd overacted to something perfectly explainable. I'd made a mistake.
This time, however, there was no mistake. I came home from Gin's around midday. Paul was still in bed, being lazy. I went into his room without thinking. There they were, fast asleep, both seemingly naked under a blanket that barely covered them. I closed the door quietly.
Sitting at the kitchen table, I held my head in my hands. I had been right all along. And now I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Pairing: Paul/George
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 498
Disclaimer: Not real
Prompt: #6: Non-Beatle POV (Paul's dad)
The first time I found them alone, I thought there must be something funny going on. Well, what would you think if you came home to find your half-dressed son in his bedroom with one of his friends who was, it should be noted, wearing nothing but your son's dressing gown? And on a night when I'd told Paul I wouldn't be at home.
If I had ever suspected this of Paul, I would never have thought he’d choose George as his partner in crime. Lennon was supposed to be the bad influence, not little George Harrison. I tried to send George home but with no luck. Paul argued that it was still raining and that George lived "twenty minutes away from the fucking bus stop, dad".
"I've told you before not to use that language.”
"I don't care! You can't just tell my friends to leave. It’s not fair!" He shouted, gesturing furiously towards a cowering George.
"This is my house, son." I reminded him in a slow, quiet voice. "I can do what I want. When you're an adult-"
"I'm eighteen!"
"Then why don't you go and get yourself a fucking job!"
I was so angry, and scared to think that my son might be like that, but I couldn't confront him about it directly. The argument wasn't really about anything but it went on like that until we were both blue in the face from shouting. He said something. I'm not sure what, but it hit a nerve and I struck out at him. I hadn't planned to hit my son, but who does? I wasn't thinking straight.
He stood staring at me. I demanded to know what was going on. Paul came out with a story about them going for a walk in the park and falling in the duck pond. He said George couldn't go home because his clothes were wet and muddy. So they’d come back and had a bath. That was all.
The bath was indeed full of water. Paul hadn't bothered to empty it, of course. And, as usual, the floor was soaking. I’ve never known how he manages it.
"It's not a big deal, you know. We shared baths at our friend's place in Hamburg."
"Not at the same time, obviously." George said with a small smirk that disappeared quickly after I sent him a withering look.
But I believed their story, mostly because I wanted to. My son couldn't possibly be queer. I'd overacted to something perfectly explainable. I'd made a mistake.
This time, however, there was no mistake. I came home from Gin's around midday. Paul was still in bed, being lazy. I went into his room without thinking. There they were, fast asleep, both seemingly naked under a blanket that barely covered them. I closed the door quietly.
Sitting at the kitchen table, I held my head in my hands. I had been right all along. And now I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.