Chapter Text
April 9, 1970
Paul had always been meticulous. He started out as an unnaturally tidy child who grew into a fanatically organized adolescent, and his adulthood habits bordered on the anal-retentive. They would serve him well today, this day that he would spend in preparation followed by performance. He needed everything to be just so. His first solo album, "McCartney," was complete and in the can, and he had many, many things to do before it went public.
Such as officially leaving The Beatles.
At the moment he was alone in the house on Cavendish Avenue, having given Linda, Heather, and baby Mary many fond goodbye kisses before they left for the farm. Even Martha was with them on this trip; all of his girls would be mucking around in the stables by the time he was done with the day's tasks, and the thought of them made his heart beat a little faster.
For himself, there was paperwork galore, some mundane and some very personal. He made certain that each document would stand expert scrutiny before folding it up and placing it in a carefully-labeled envelope. He fanned the envelopes neatly on his desk so that they could be easily sorted.
That task ended, Paul took a hot shower and washed his hair, humming as he gave himself a close shave so that he would look his very best. He stopped mid-stroke with the razor when he realized that the tune was one of John's, "If I Fell," then continued shaving with a rueful sigh. I couldn't stand the pain.
He'd be leaving John, as well.
But John's words wouldn't leave him.
Paul selected his wardrobe with the same care as he always lavished on every aspect of his music. He chose grey flannel trousers, a dark green pullover jumper that John had once said "brought out all the colours" in his kaleidoscope eyes, and spent five minutes polishing his black dress shoes. His underwear was all brand new - just in case he blew his mind out in a car - and when he was dressed, he looked at himself in every angle the floor-length mirror would provide.
His reflection showed him Paul McCartney, from the perfect hair to the perfect shoes, to the perfect smile he had practiced since puberty.
Who he was on the inside, however, feeling two-foot small was another matter altogether.
It wouldn't do to end the band with the same tatty case he'd carried lyric sheets around in for all these years. The end of The Beatles was a serious event and it required a serious attaché case. He had selected a black leather one with shiny brass hardware. He lifted it, testing its weight, and set it on the passenger seat of his car. Everything was in order for the drive to Tittenhurst Park. There's nothing you can do that can't be done.
Paul noticed that it was a particularly lovely day for a drive.
Unusually, he chose silence rather than the radio as he sped out of London. This was a time to get his thoughts in order, not to be distracted by the popular hits of the day - even if they were his own. Especially if they were his own, because that would mean hearing John, and George, and Ringo.
Not today. Not when he'd be leaving them.
By the time the cityscape turned to dappled shade tangerine trees on Paul's face, he started to doubt his mission. The band had given him so much. On the other hand, the band had taken every last ounce of his strength, like Delilah shearing Samson, and he had nothing left to give. I'm so tired. Nothing left to give to anyone. And certainly not to John, who had soaked up Yoko's cruelty the way a sponge would soak up blood, then had wrung the sponge out on Paul's head while Yoko cackled and cheered him on.
He should have been nervous when the gates of Tittenhurst Park opened to him, should have wondered what was about to happen. But he had rehearsed the end of The Beatles in his mind, over and over and over, polishing it the way he did his songs. Even when John opened the door and stared impassively at him, Paul felt nothing but relief that it would soon be over and done with. Why do I feel the way I do?
John was dressed from head to toe in loose-fitting white cotton, his hair hanging lankly from the center part that elongated his Roman nose to almost cartoonish lengths. He was barefoot and unshaven, and his glasses had fingerprints on the lenses.
His voice was impatient when he finally spoke to Paul. "All right, I've sent Yoko on an errand, so we have the place to ourselves like you asked. What is it you need?"
Love is all you need.
It was time, then. Time to recite the words he'd been planning for over a year. Oddly, not since he had married Linda, but since John had married Yoko, planning to do it in Paris as if to say fuck you to Paul.
"I want you to remember," Paul said evenly, "that once upon a time there were two lads from Liverpool who meant the earth to one another."
"That's ancient history, son," John replied with a half-smile, but he still didn't stand aside, still didn't gesture that Paul should come into the house.
"And those boys were in a band that went to the toppermost of the poppermost and back down again, but when they got to the end of the ride, only one of them was still in love."
It wasn't as easy to say these words in front of John, looking into his unsuspecting eyes, as Paul had anticipated. He prayed that the next part would come easier.
"I can't do without that love," Paul said as he fumbled with the attaché case.
John groaned. "No, for fuck's sake, Paul, not more fucking papers..."
But then Paul had found the object he needed and pulled it out, and John's face went white with terror.
It was a gun.
"Where'd you get--shit, don't point that thing at me!" John shouted, backing away.
Paul held the gun loosely in his left hand, the barrel facing the cool stone steps. He shook his head. "Don't worry, John."
"Paul, Paul, please, put it down, you don't want--"
For a moment, Paul could see all the other iterations of John, HIS John, in all the places he'd remember all his life, though some had changed:
Woolton Village Fete, the handsome, tousled lad mangling lyrics.
Paul's living room, writing songs, eye to eye.
The Cavern Club, John's hand in the small of his back.
Hamburg, John's hand on his thigh.
Paris, John's hand on his cock, caressing him to orgasm.
Shea Stadium, sharing a mic so closely that it was like kissing.
Bangor, holding one another when they heard that Brian was gone.
Rishikesh, stolen moments that ended as Yoko's postcards began to arrive.
Abbey Road Studios, arguing about music.
Twickenham Studios, arguing about everything else but pretending it was the music.
Apple's offices. "I want a divorce."
Paul's laugh was a mirthless explosion. John's face softened, his eyes growing wide with the first hint of kindness Paul had seen in many a month. Paul took a moment to commit this John to memory, the one who gazed at him with concern in his intelligent amber eyes, who reached for him with a perfectly sculpted, trembling hand.
"It just fucking figures," Paul began, the words flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup, "that my life's over, but it's yours that's flashing before my eyes."
WIth a single, graceful movement, while John screamed and pleaded with him - "Jesus Christ, Paulie, oh God, please, please don't, no! NO!" - Paul placed the barrel of the gun in his own mouth, angled it up, up, up, and pulled the trigger.