Break Me One More Time [McLennon]

in which the FHO is getting suspicious

Paul and John were fine. They always were when they bickered or fought, and it wasn't even John that Paul was really angry with. He was angry with himself, with Yoko, with the F.H.O., and with the Shadows. Unfortunately for John, he had been the one standing in front of Paul when it all became too much.

"Maybe you should see a therapist," John suggested a few days after Paul stormed out of the house to go for a rage fueled drive. "Just to, you know, talk things out."

"Maybe," Paul said, but he never brought it up again, and therefore neither did John. What was Paul supposed to say to a therapist anyway?

So life went on, as it tends to do.

The tour — the grand tour — was fast approaching. (Well, not really.)

The tour was set to kick off in February of 1977, which was about a year away. But George was panicked and frantic, thinking about this tour at all times. This tour was his baby, he had built it from an idea into what it was today: a plan, set and ready to be put into action. This meant rehearsals — lots and lots of rehearsals.

"I'm sick of this," John huffed when they finally crossed the threshold into their home in the countryside one evening.

"Please don't start," Paul said. "Not tonight."

Martha came running to greet them.

"It's the drive, really," said John.

"I know," Paul sighed.

"Paul," John said. "Don't think about what I said a few months ago, okay? I'm not sick of being a Beatle. I'll never be sick of being a Beatle."

Paul only hummed.

"I'm excited for the tour," John said. "Promise."

"You're gonna be civil with Bowie, then?" Paul said, shooting him a pointed look.

"One hundred percent civility," John said, nodding firmly. "I will be the picture of professionalism. With one hundred percent trust in you, my dear."

Paul smiled. "Good."

"It's late," John said softly. "We should go to sleep. Another long day of rehearsals tomorrow."

"You go on ahead, I'll be up in a bit," Paul said. "I've got a song in my head that I want to get down before I go to bed."

"Sure you don't want me to stay up with you?" John asked.

"I'm sure," Paul said. "You'll only keep me from getting it done."

"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" John said, pouting.

"Well, you're just so beautiful it's distracting," Paul said, grinning.

John laughed sarcastically. "Okay, you flatterer," he scoffed. "I'm going to bed."

"Goodnight," Paul said laughingly.

John turned away from his husband, unable to contain a small chuckle. Paul watched him ascending the staircase. Once John had disappeared onto the landing and down the darkened hallway, Paul turned, smiling, and headed into the living room so that he might plunk out notes on the piano. This song had been stuck in his head all day, and he wasn't sure if it was something he'd come up with on his own or if it was something he remembered from his life the first time around.

He walked into the sitting room, pulling his driving gloves off of his hands. When he looked up, his gloves slipped from his fingertips and fell softly to the floor. "Who — who —"