John tossed a crumpled sheet of notebook paper at Paul, who was yawning again instead of singing harmonies with him.
"Would you pay attention so we can get this down?" John asked, exasperated.
He had been exceptionally patient, John thought, with Paul in the months since they'd rescued him from that witch woman. As long as he lived, John would never forget the sight that greeted Ringo and himself in her flat that day. Something from the depths of hell itself. He had tried to talk about the experience with Paul a few times, only to be abruptly shut off. Somehow, he knew that wasn't good. Paul had lately been withdrawing more from the group, quiet and jumpy. Now he was showing up with dark rings under his eyes, his complexion pasty, obviously not sleeping well.
Paul scrubbted a hand across his face, then slapped himself lightly on the cheek to wake up.
"Nightmares?" John asked quietly so Ringo and George wouldn't overhear.
Paul shot him the "Shut up" look and busied himself with lighting a cigarette.
"Oh look, come off it!" John said hotly. "I know you're not over what happened. Not by a long shot. But you won't talk about it, you won't see anyone about it, and you're just sitting around with that bloody long face, wasting away."
"Can we not talk about this now?" Paul muttered, swinging his head in the direction of George and Ringo.
"Why, when will you talk about it? What don't you want them to hear?" John replied. "We're all mates; we''ve been through it all together. What makes this so different?"
Paul's eyes narrowed and he drew closer to John, blowing a stream of cigarette smoke from the side of his mouth before speaking.
"You have no bloody idea what's going on with me, John? Well, let me share with you then, by all means. I haven't had a woman in my bed since the lovely Lucia came into my life. Every time I feel that itch, I can't scratch it for fear of the memories that come screaming into my head. Every time I start getting interested in a woman, "she" pops into my mind. I walk the fucking streets at night because I can't sleep. You want to know why? I'm scared shitless to sleep because of the dreams. So there you go, mate. Hope that helps you out, anyroad."
With that last sarcastic shot, he turned away and walked quickly out the studio door without a backward glance or word. John jumped off his chair and followed immediately. No one, not even Paul, got the last word on him like that.
Paul was halfway down the outside stairs, muttering to himself as he furiously finished his ciggie, glaring at the cluster of fans a short way outside the fenced area around the studio. John nearly barreled into him as he blew out the door. He caught Paul by the arm before he could escape.
"Alright," John said in a low vaoice, "I'm sorry I pushed so hard. But you're in tough shape, Macca. We can all see it. Maybe you need to talk to someone...professional."
Paul snorted and flicked his cigarette away. "No bloody way in hell. Can't you see it all over the papers, John? We're too fucking famous to get help."
John frowned. "Look, I know you. Hell, we shared our first sexual conquests together, watched each other perform. We don't have any secrets, Macca. I know you live and breathe sex. I know you thrive on shagging. You can't be celibate like a bloody monk. You're going to drive yourself crazy."
Paul balled his fists; he looked incredibly frustrated and hotly embarrassed at the same time.
"I can't argue with that, John. I am going barmy, but I don't know what to do."
The cold wind lifted his hair at that moment and John finally noticed the ugly bruise on Paul's forehead. "What's that?" he asked, tilting his head up.
Paul saw where John's eyes were focused and closed his own with a sigh. "Just a bruise."
"From what?" John pressed.
Paul couldn't stand any more of John's grilling questions. "I'm off," he said irritably, pulling his arm away from John's grasp. "If I need mothering, I can always find someone better looking than you to do it."
"Ah, but therein lies the rub, Paulie," John replied quietly but with force. "Apparently you can't."
A muscle twitched in Paul's clenched jaw. He whirled back, took a surprised John by the shoulders and tossed him sideways into the snowy bushes along the side of the building just as Ringo and George emerged from the front door behind them.
Ringo grabbed for Paul as he seemed about to jump into the shrubs after John and pummel him while George hastily went to disentangle John. Their fan club audience was milling about making shocked noises.
"I should just smash your face in, Lennon," Paul said in a low, dangerous tone. "But you were there for me then. Just leave me the hell alone now! You're not helping!" Something about his eyes made John's blood run cold, even from a distance; they seemed to have gone completely black instead of their usual hazel brown.
Paul shook off Ringo's hand and stormed off down the sidewalk in the direction of his house, ignoring the small crowd of admirers, some of whom uncertainly and stupidly still held out a record or two in hopes of an autograph.
George looked at John's dark expression as he reached down a hand to help him out of the shrubbery. He fully expected a second explosion, but was surprised when John merely took his hand, extracted himself and stood rubbing one of his elbows thoughtfully.
"John?" Ringo questioned.
"Paul might be a complete arsehole," John said quietly, "But he's our arsehole and he's in a world of hurt.
"A world of hurt," he repeated after a moment, shaking his head. "Let's get back inside and talk."
