It's A Drag.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Paul/John
Disclaimer: Fake. Anything else you need to know?
Summary: Paul couldn't lie to anyone that asked him; the day had started out golden.
Paul couldn't lie to anyone that asked him- the day had started out golden. He remembered sleeping in, lazily cursing the sun streaming through his bedroom window, and he remembered the morning as tranquil and pleasant.
Perhaps he'd said differently in an interview or two, but no, the morning of December 8th, 1980, John had hardly crossed his mind at all. While it was true, their last conversation had been warm, friendly, laced with good intentions and kind words, it wasn't as if that's all Paul could think about.
If, of course, you're excluding the good portion of the night time where the darkness cloaked his racing thoughts of what could have been between him and his former band mate.
Paul McCartney was a busy man; you could say that he was a bit of a workaholic- a perfectionist. The morning of December 8th, he didn't have any stray thoughts of his friend at all. He would tell you he had a bad feeling, but what he wouldn't say is that he felt good enough to skip breakfast and get right to song writing.
Sure, John had been in and out of his head a few times throughout the morning; "Imagine" was often a song Paul would listen to if he lacked inspiration, or even for sheer enjoyment. Paul remembered when he listened to John's song that day, finally setting down his bass to feed himself a bowl of cereal. The stereo located in his make shift studio, it blasted the words from out of its' speakers and sent them fluttering about the room in smooth waves of sounds and words that only John Lennon could write. It wasn't as if Paul could deem this activity anything special though, as he shoved small spoon fulls of cereal into his mouth- after all, it was just another day on the calender.
That afternoon, maybe he would have told a camera or an audience that he was thinking of calling John that evening to get together for a celebration of the New Year- but really, he was waiting for John to call him first.
The one thing that Paul could admit truthfully, though, is that the day was dragging, as if to procrastinate against something. However, he shrugged it off, because something good was on the telly, and he figured that he needed a break from all his thinking.
He didn't take it as some sort of sign that it was supposed to be colder than usual on that day; in fact, Paul was hoping that it would snow some time soon- he thought fondly of white blankets crunching beneath his shoes, but no, this thought didn't lead back to John in any sort of way.
Against his better judgment, possibly, Paul had decided to go out. The wintry breeze flipping his hair about his head in awkward intervals, biting his cheeks until they became a reddish pink, it nearly drove him back home numerous times. but it didn't, in the end, because he had figured he should take advantage of the city; not to mention that maybe it was always flattering to be recognized in public by fans and friends alike. He wouldn't ever say that, though, not if he was being asked about December 8th. If he was being asked about that day, he would recall it as a somber one, personifying the wind that really was hardly noticeable as a smirking ultimatum of what was to come. Paul McCartney had never claimed to be perfect.
"Paul! What'll it be today?" He and the bartender were on a first name basis, and Paul was grateful for that, mostly because at this point, he could pretty much order his drinks without actually ordering his drinks.
"Usual," He shot back nonchalantly, and the bartender nodded. Paul sat down like he normally did, and the evening news rolled by the screen, and he began to relish in the utter normalcy of it, if not finding it odd that a strange feeling really was beginning to creep up into his stomach. Yes, that feeling that Paul would say he was suffering from hours upon hours before, it must have settled in but a mere few intervals of time before it actually started to bother him.
"Something wrong?" When the bartender grew weary of the distant look deeming Paul's eyes 'vacant', he decided that he would ask what was on the mind of his most favored customer. Paul's head seemed to snap back into action, but instead of looking at his drink dispensing friend, his eyes flicked first to the news before the owner of the voice addressing him. He grimaced before fully coming back into focus, and then he spoke tiredly.
"Yeah," He said, "Jus' 'ave a weird feelin'." The bartender smiled, relieved it was nothing more than that, and he turned his back to Paul to pour him another pint.
"Maybe you jus' 'ave to use the loo." He responded haphazardly, and Paul nodded as he took a sip of his new drink. "Maybe." He echoed, and then he purposefully stood himself up, a bit uneasy on his feet from the alcohol he'd consumed. "Be right back, then." Of course he would have told everyone differently, but just as he was beginning to recognize the neigh unnatural aura of the particular night, Paul had blamed it on his bowels and shuffled hurriedly to the bathroom in an attempt to relieve himself of it. An hour or two later, though, staring at the bar counter while the world around him seemed to make no noise at all, it's not like the call happened slowly.
"Phone for you, McCartney," The bartender said, and he looked at Paul worriedly, which earned him a confused glance. "Sounds pretty important." But before the caller could even reveal to Paul their identity, his face turned to the screen of the news once more; that's when he saw it- the thing the spinning world had been dreading for all this time.
As if repeating back to him the events playing across the screen, screaming "Breaking news", whoever he was on the phone with had said it.
"John's dead."
Paul might have told a public figure or two that he didn't believe it at first, that he had just dropped the call and continued as one would on a normal night of drinking and conversation. In this instance, Paul wouldn't even be sure if the truth was spinning off his tongue or if it was just something else he fabricated in order to increase the credibility of his public persona.
He was shot four times, Paul had discovered, and the bitter truth, he supposed was far worse than the wind nipping at his numb body as he left the bar without another word. Far worse, though, it was so perfectly believable that it made Paul throw up all the contents of the day that had started out so well onto the cold pavement that John had laid on, as if he wasn't one of the most important men that had ever lived.
Reeling from something, a sudden void in his chest as the clock struck 11:21, Paul turned to the stars for guidance and wondered aloud to them why something like this could happen. He pleaded with them as the delayed reaction of his tears made him nauseous all over again. Paul, suddenly, he felt the heavy weight of "You don't know what you've got until it's gone."
Paul McCartney might have said that in the gust of the night time breeze, he heard John's voice telling him not to be sad; to dry the tears that were beginning to spill out of his eyes. But no, that night, as the stars were obstructed by the pollution that John had fought tooth and nail against, there was no voice in the wind or face in the clouds. Paul was alone, left only with memories and songs and words that he knew would never be enough anymore, not when he was gone.
His mind slipped, then, and played before him the past times that maybe he wasn't ready to see quite yet. He saw Mimi's porch, the light being the only thing illuminated on the street, in the world, as he and John were the only ones that had mattered. In that instant, Paul saw every note that came from John's guitar, every laugh they've ever shared, every ring of smoke that would billow carelessly from his half opened mouth. He saw before him, playing across the vacant air, every performance they'd ever had. Paul watched helplessly as he saw every tear that had ever fallen out of the enigma of John's eyes, heartbroken; standing there, unmoving, as if he could stop them, anyway.
He saw each and every memory, good and bad, painful or otherwise, until finally, the reel ran out of film. John was gone, and as his smiling face from times much better faded into the darkness, Paul was all alone. Irrefutably, undeniably alone, heart growing more numb than his fingers must have been by then in the cold December night, now having so much more meaning than he previously thought.
That day, the day that had started out with a lazy smile and a bowl of cereal, it ended with reporters swarming him in the streets, asking with excited voices what his view was. What he thought. What his reaction was. Vultures, feeding on the death of this man they didn't even know, as if Paul hadn't loved him more than anyone else could deem fathomable.
"It's a drag, isn't it?" Paul had said, not regretting a single nonchalant syllable as he hurried into the nearest cab he could find to take him anywhere. Home, a bar, an alleyway, the end of the world, to John. "What a drag," Paul had repeated under his breath, as the driver seemed to pay no mind. His good day had gone to waste. And to think, December 8th had started out with such amazing potential.
Pairing: Paul/John
Disclaimer: Fake. Anything else you need to know?
Summary: Paul couldn't lie to anyone that asked him; the day had started out golden.
Paul couldn't lie to anyone that asked him- the day had started out golden. He remembered sleeping in, lazily cursing the sun streaming through his bedroom window, and he remembered the morning as tranquil and pleasant.
Perhaps he'd said differently in an interview or two, but no, the morning of December 8th, 1980, John had hardly crossed his mind at all. While it was true, their last conversation had been warm, friendly, laced with good intentions and kind words, it wasn't as if that's all Paul could think about.
If, of course, you're excluding the good portion of the night time where the darkness cloaked his racing thoughts of what could have been between him and his former band mate.
Paul McCartney was a busy man; you could say that he was a bit of a workaholic- a perfectionist. The morning of December 8th, he didn't have any stray thoughts of his friend at all. He would tell you he had a bad feeling, but what he wouldn't say is that he felt good enough to skip breakfast and get right to song writing.
Sure, John had been in and out of his head a few times throughout the morning; "Imagine" was often a song Paul would listen to if he lacked inspiration, or even for sheer enjoyment. Paul remembered when he listened to John's song that day, finally setting down his bass to feed himself a bowl of cereal. The stereo located in his make shift studio, it blasted the words from out of its' speakers and sent them fluttering about the room in smooth waves of sounds and words that only John Lennon could write. It wasn't as if Paul could deem this activity anything special though, as he shoved small spoon fulls of cereal into his mouth- after all, it was just another day on the calender.
That afternoon, maybe he would have told a camera or an audience that he was thinking of calling John that evening to get together for a celebration of the New Year- but really, he was waiting for John to call him first.
The one thing that Paul could admit truthfully, though, is that the day was dragging, as if to procrastinate against something. However, he shrugged it off, because something good was on the telly, and he figured that he needed a break from all his thinking.
He didn't take it as some sort of sign that it was supposed to be colder than usual on that day; in fact, Paul was hoping that it would snow some time soon- he thought fondly of white blankets crunching beneath his shoes, but no, this thought didn't lead back to John in any sort of way.
Against his better judgment, possibly, Paul had decided to go out. The wintry breeze flipping his hair about his head in awkward intervals, biting his cheeks until they became a reddish pink, it nearly drove him back home numerous times. but it didn't, in the end, because he had figured he should take advantage of the city; not to mention that maybe it was always flattering to be recognized in public by fans and friends alike. He wouldn't ever say that, though, not if he was being asked about December 8th. If he was being asked about that day, he would recall it as a somber one, personifying the wind that really was hardly noticeable as a smirking ultimatum of what was to come. Paul McCartney had never claimed to be perfect.
"Paul! What'll it be today?" He and the bartender were on a first name basis, and Paul was grateful for that, mostly because at this point, he could pretty much order his drinks without actually ordering his drinks.
"Usual," He shot back nonchalantly, and the bartender nodded. Paul sat down like he normally did, and the evening news rolled by the screen, and he began to relish in the utter normalcy of it, if not finding it odd that a strange feeling really was beginning to creep up into his stomach. Yes, that feeling that Paul would say he was suffering from hours upon hours before, it must have settled in but a mere few intervals of time before it actually started to bother him.
"Something wrong?" When the bartender grew weary of the distant look deeming Paul's eyes 'vacant', he decided that he would ask what was on the mind of his most favored customer. Paul's head seemed to snap back into action, but instead of looking at his drink dispensing friend, his eyes flicked first to the news before the owner of the voice addressing him. He grimaced before fully coming back into focus, and then he spoke tiredly.
"Yeah," He said, "Jus' 'ave a weird feelin'." The bartender smiled, relieved it was nothing more than that, and he turned his back to Paul to pour him another pint.
"Maybe you jus' 'ave to use the loo." He responded haphazardly, and Paul nodded as he took a sip of his new drink. "Maybe." He echoed, and then he purposefully stood himself up, a bit uneasy on his feet from the alcohol he'd consumed. "Be right back, then." Of course he would have told everyone differently, but just as he was beginning to recognize the neigh unnatural aura of the particular night, Paul had blamed it on his bowels and shuffled hurriedly to the bathroom in an attempt to relieve himself of it. An hour or two later, though, staring at the bar counter while the world around him seemed to make no noise at all, it's not like the call happened slowly.
"Phone for you, McCartney," The bartender said, and he looked at Paul worriedly, which earned him a confused glance. "Sounds pretty important." But before the caller could even reveal to Paul their identity, his face turned to the screen of the news once more; that's when he saw it- the thing the spinning world had been dreading for all this time.
As if repeating back to him the events playing across the screen, screaming "Breaking news", whoever he was on the phone with had said it.
"John's dead."
Paul might have told a public figure or two that he didn't believe it at first, that he had just dropped the call and continued as one would on a normal night of drinking and conversation. In this instance, Paul wouldn't even be sure if the truth was spinning off his tongue or if it was just something else he fabricated in order to increase the credibility of his public persona.
He was shot four times, Paul had discovered, and the bitter truth, he supposed was far worse than the wind nipping at his numb body as he left the bar without another word. Far worse, though, it was so perfectly believable that it made Paul throw up all the contents of the day that had started out so well onto the cold pavement that John had laid on, as if he wasn't one of the most important men that had ever lived.
Reeling from something, a sudden void in his chest as the clock struck 11:21, Paul turned to the stars for guidance and wondered aloud to them why something like this could happen. He pleaded with them as the delayed reaction of his tears made him nauseous all over again. Paul, suddenly, he felt the heavy weight of "You don't know what you've got until it's gone."
Paul McCartney might have said that in the gust of the night time breeze, he heard John's voice telling him not to be sad; to dry the tears that were beginning to spill out of his eyes. But no, that night, as the stars were obstructed by the pollution that John had fought tooth and nail against, there was no voice in the wind or face in the clouds. Paul was alone, left only with memories and songs and words that he knew would never be enough anymore, not when he was gone.
His mind slipped, then, and played before him the past times that maybe he wasn't ready to see quite yet. He saw Mimi's porch, the light being the only thing illuminated on the street, in the world, as he and John were the only ones that had mattered. In that instant, Paul saw every note that came from John's guitar, every laugh they've ever shared, every ring of smoke that would billow carelessly from his half opened mouth. He saw before him, playing across the vacant air, every performance they'd ever had. Paul watched helplessly as he saw every tear that had ever fallen out of the enigma of John's eyes, heartbroken; standing there, unmoving, as if he could stop them, anyway.
He saw each and every memory, good and bad, painful or otherwise, until finally, the reel ran out of film. John was gone, and as his smiling face from times much better faded into the darkness, Paul was all alone. Irrefutably, undeniably alone, heart growing more numb than his fingers must have been by then in the cold December night, now having so much more meaning than he previously thought.
That day, the day that had started out with a lazy smile and a bowl of cereal, it ended with reporters swarming him in the streets, asking with excited voices what his view was. What he thought. What his reaction was. Vultures, feeding on the death of this man they didn't even know, as if Paul hadn't loved him more than anyone else could deem fathomable.
"It's a drag, isn't it?" Paul had said, not regretting a single nonchalant syllable as he hurried into the nearest cab he could find to take him anywhere. Home, a bar, an alleyway, the end of the world, to John. "What a drag," Paul had repeated under his breath, as the driver seemed to pay no mind. His good day had gone to waste. And to think, December 8th had started out with such amazing potential.