#McCartney blank face

[waveofahand]

This just makes me sad, Paul!

A new project has me putting some time into studying facial expressions and body language, and one thing I have learned is that fiddling with your fingers or holding your own hand is an unconscious act of self-consolation: people put in situations that makes them feel stressed or anxious will instinctively hold their own hands to make themselves feel better, especially if they really need to have someone else hold their hand, and no one will. This solemn-looking little boy was consoling himself. Because nobody was holding his hand. And he grew up to write a song called "I Want to Hold Your Hand." And even while at "the toppermost of the poppermost," he still needed the consolation of a hand in his, and turned to himself.

"There he goes again, picking at his hands, like a little kid, the way he does when he's anxious or tired..." I'm also learning that a blank-faced expression absolutely IS "learned behavior" (as I'd suspected), particularly if someone has been put under stress by persons looking to get a particular reaction. The person learns to "show nothing" so as to give no satisfaction.

Good on you, Paul, for not giving your tormentors what they wanted. But I am also sad, too! Because I suspect that when you were blank-facing it, or sitting on your hands, or fiddling with your fingers, it's because inside you felt like this:

Still blank-facing it, but less successfully. And with a swollen cheek and a jaw that looked like it hurt. Poor lad. I would love to know what was up with all that!.

[beatlepaul4ever]

Ok Paul, you’re taking this ‘mask face’ thing you do a little too far now.

[hotchs-bitch]

Fluffy Feb Day 27- Snow

Warnings: getting together, only one bed trope except I as the author provided 2 beds and they do it to themselves, Canada (which was supposed to be realistic but comes across as satire. No judging me unless you are also Canadian), some 18+ implications but nothing happens

Pairing: Hotch x blank slate Fem!Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 4.1k (i went crazy :/)

A/N: Honestly I've either made up or researched everything I've put in a fic about America so it was a nice change to just Know Things (although I am not from the province where this takes place). Also in my mind this is a continuation to Day 9- Pine

Once again, bonus points if you can figure out which Taylor Swift song I was listening to when writing this

Cases have taken you all over the country, face to face with some of the worst serial killers that America has ever seen. Much less often, they take you to Canada.

Specifically, in the case of a psychopath who skipped borders after killing in two states almost a decade ago and resumed his killing spree further north now, they occasionally take you to the middle of Nowheresville, Saskatchewan, Canada. In the dead of winter.

“Hey, folks.” The chief of police greets you all- well, most of you, since Rossi and Prentiss are already out on the field- with a friendly wave, shaking Hotch’s hand. “Chief McCartney. Sorry to make y’all take a trip up here, but we sure can use the help.”

“The FBI has been searching for the unsub for some time,” Hotch answers as their hands part. “The case has been assumed cold for several years by the Bureau, so we’re grateful you reached out. Two of my agents are at the latest crime scene already.”

“Where should we set up?” JJ asks, and the chief leads you to a conference room. “And, er, speaking of cold…”

You’re all very cold, just from the drive from the airstrip to the station. You’d seen people snowmobiling past the road, and JJ had marvelled aloud wondering how they could bear to be out in this weather. It’s not surprising that she’s the first one to bring up the chilly air in the precinct with her parka still zipped up to her chin.

McCartney snaps his fingers like he’s remembered something important. “Y’all must be freezing, eh? Let me rustle up a space heater, get you nice and toasty.”

The fact that he’s wearing a button-down shirt and a light jacket isn’t lost on any of the experienced profilers in the room. “You’re not cold?” Derek asks, half in disbelief. “Man, I grew up in Chicago and I can’t feel my toes right now.”

“We hit minus 30’s a few weeks back,” McCartney says, wincing. “Sorry, I didn’t even think of it. Guess we’re all used to it around here by now.”

“Minus…” You glance at Spencer, who’s locked and loaded with an answer.

“Negative 30 degrees Celsius is about negative 22, Fahrenheit,” he reports. “I’d estimate we’re closer to negative 31 degrees Farenheit, though.”

“He’s smart. Windchill’s pushing us a little under,” McCartney confirms. “I’ll go get that space heater. Y’all settle in, and I’ll have one of my officers bring over the files ASAP.”

You ‘settle in’ as best you can, poring over the case with your team while wrapped in thick sweaters and cradling to-go cups of coffee. They’re branded with the Tim Hortons logo from the traveller case that one of the officers brings for you along with the files and a box of donut holes labelled ‘Timbits’. The space heater sits in the corner of the room, slowly bringing the space to a temperature that you’re all used to.

Hotch takes the first sip of his coffee without adding anything into it, his face screwing up at the taste. “It’s not too good when it’s black,” the officer tells him. “Sorry, should’ve warned you. Try a double double, it’s way better.”

“Here, I’ve got it.” You take Hotch’s coffee from him, adding in two little packets of sugar and two creamer cups while he watches you. “Better?” He stirs it and takes a sip, deliberating.

The second sip must be miles better than the first. “It’s not as bitter. I think that’s all I can ask for,” he murmurs while he takes a seat next to you, and you smirk.

He’s wearing the same quarter-zip that made an appearance when you went to Alaska, and he seems relatively warm. Lucky him. The less-built members of your team, particularly JJ and Spencer, have rosy cheeks and keep sticking their hands in their pockets to warm them. Poor Spencer goes through several cups of coffee in mere hours, a weak attempt to warm himself from the inside out.

Nearing the end of the day, you all pack up your things. There haven’t been any more murders today, but the information gleaned from the crime scenes helps you add to the profile. The unsub has a pattern of striking each week, probably to gauge how close the investigation is to catching him during the cooldown period, and he hasn’t strayed from the pattern since resurfacing.

You trudge to the hotel across the street from the police station- this town is so tiny that you don’t think it’s made up of anything other than a main street and rows of suburbia housing- in the pitch-black, wind whistling by your ears and freezing them. The sun went down several hours ago even though it’s only nearing seven PM, and the dark doesn’t lift anyone’s spirits.

“Get some rest,” Hotch says while he hands out room keys in the hotel lobby, speaking over the sound of chattering teeth. It’s more of an order than a request. “We’re at the station bright and early tomorrow, and I want you all rested and ready to work.”

The room key in your hands leads you down a hallway to a door that you unlock right as Hotch turns the corner. “119, right?” He clarifies, and you nod. “Alright. You’re with me.”

“Sounds good.” Your voice sounds cool and even, and you’re sort of proud of yourself for keeping it together after finding out that you’re sharing a hotel room with your very kind, very attractive boss. You’ve shared a room with him before, but it’s a battle of willpower to appear normal every time.

The hotel room is decently nice, and it’s warmer than you expected. Two queen-sized beds share a nightstand, and there’s a desk with a coffeemaker on it pressed up to the wall next to the TV. It’s a standard hotel room, a setup you’re familiar with. The heater under the window is whirring, filling the room with blissfully warm air- almost too warm- that has you shedding your jacket as Hotch sets his go bag on one bed and his briefcase on the desk.

“No working,” you remind him, your tone as scolding as it is light-hearted. “Bright and early, remember?”

Hotch snorts at that, then takes off his quarter-zip sweater. “We’ll be six bitter coffees deep before the sun comes up,” he says, but you struggle to hear a single word out of his mouth when you see his biceps through the thin white material of his shirt. He’s been covered up all day, and you haven’t hit your daily quota of staring at his arms.

It’s been a hard day, particularly for that reason.

“I’m going to shower,” Hotch says after a moment, discarding his fleece on the desk chair. He picks up his go bag, and the bathroom door closes behind him a moment later.

By the time he re-enters, wearing flannel pajamas pants and a white shirt, you’re fiddling with the heater. It seems to be broken, and when you turn the dial to blow cold air in the room it only seems to come out a few degrees cooler.

“The blanket’s really heavy,” you warn as he gets into his own bed. You can’t believe you’re overheating at negative-a-million degrees, but the combined weight of the duvet and warm air blowing steadily into the room is reminiscent of falling asleep in Arizona rather than the snowy north. “Something’s wrong with the heater.”

“I’ll try to manage,” he responds with a dry smile before pulling the blanket over himself. It lands on him with a solid sound, thick duvet against chest, and a soft ‘oof’, and you count to three in your head before he says, “Okay, you were right.’

“Aren’t I always?” You pull your own duvet down when you get into bed, leaving yourself covered with the top sheet of the bedspread. He stays underneath his blankets, not shifting them while you reach out and turn the lamp off.

Falling asleep has never been so difficult. Without the thick duvet, you’re curled into a ball within five minutes when the slightly colder air fills the room. With it, you’re sweating so much that it’s a wonder you aren’t sliding right off the bed. One leg pokes out from under the heavy covers, but it feels like the only part of your body that’s at a closer-to-normal temperature while the rest of you overheats. You toss and turn, falling asleep briefly every once in a while for maybe ten minutes at a time.

It’s a little embarrassing, actually. Your blanket and sheet are lifted and shifted so many times that you have to hope you aren’t waking Hotch up, even when you move as quietly as possible. The only sound in the air is the wind whistling and fabric shifting, louder than you thought possible.

Around 1 AM, hours after trying to fall asleep, you’ve all but given up. You’re considering getting to work on the file by lamplight, or just stripping down naked under the thick blankets. What other option do you have?

That’s when you hear a grunt from the other bed, and Hotch’s outline shifts in bed. You can see him move around, lifting up like he’s flipping over his pillow. In the barely-there lighting from a streetlamp, you notice that his duvet is ruffled and partially folded over itself. It looks like he’s been tossing and turning, just like you.

“Aaron,” you whisper once he’s still. It’s quiet; he can pretend not to hear you if he’s close to falling asleep, and you won’t be offended. 

When he responds, his voice is gruff and just as loud as it was in the precinct today. “Yeah?”

“Can’t sleep?” It’s a stupid question, you realize as soon as it leaves your mouth. He isn’t sleeptalking, after all.

He doesn’t call you out on it, but just sighs instead. “No. It’s not working too well for me. I’m really hot.”

Yeah, you are, you want to say, but the logical side of your brain beats the sentence back with a stick before you can say it out loud. “Me too. How do you think everyone else is doing?

“Better than us, I hope.” He sits up in bed slightly; you can tell from the rustling and the dim outline. “I’m sure Dave has some kind of temperature-controllable blanket with him.”

“Spencer probably researched the best kind of pajamas to bring,” you joke back, and Aaron chuckles at that.

“Morgan probably worked out before bed and didn’t need any blankets,” he murmurs, and you snicker.

“JJ and Emily are probably cuddling for warmth.”

Why did you say that? The high altitude- the provincial average is roughly 1700 feet above sea-level, Spencer would tell you- combined with the restlessness is probably getting to you.

Aaron clears his throat, and you cough. Neither of you seems to know what to say, so he speaks first. “As long as they don’t tell me anything. It’s a lot of paperwork, for that sort of… fraternization.”

“Well, I mean. If they’re just doing it to keep warm, that’s got to be an exception,” you point out.

“I.. suppose so, yes. As long as nothing further were to happen, two agents just trying to keep each other warm isn’t inappropriate. They… we all need to be professional.”

He sounds hesitant now, speaking carefully like he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. You wonder if he’s dancing around the same thought as you. If he is, is he trying to avoid it? Or does he not want to say it first?

“So, by that logic…” you trail off, waiting for Aaron to say something. He can say anything now. He can cut you off, bid you goodnight again, or even ask you to go bunk with Rossi, but he doesn’t.

The fact that he also isn’t exactly not encouraging you doesn’t disembolden you at all. “Yes?”

“Well. You know,” you murmur. “I’m just saying that if it’s completely professional… and if it’s helping them sleep, and therefore be more well-rested to catch a serial killer tomorrow…”

“What are you saying?” He isn’t really asking. You can hear his smirk as clearly as wind whistling through the trees outside your window. “I think you need to clarify for me.”

Your huff of annoyance is more forced than it sounds. “I’m saying that if we sleep in the same bed we might be able to actually sleep. Body heat, and all that.”

Aaron’s voice is softer now, less sure than when he teased you just a minute ago. “Are you comfortable with that?”

“If it’s okay with you, then it’s okay with me,” you promise. The only sound in the room for a moment is both of you breathing, and you wonder if he can hear your heart thumping against your ribcage. What are you doing?

“Alright,” Aaron agrees after a long moment, pushing the duvet down to the foot of his bed. “Does it matter what side you sleep on?”

You get out of your own bed, and murmur, “No,” as he rolls over to make room for you. He lifts the top sheet up and you slide in under it, curling up. There’s still some distance between you, and you try to maintain it; he’s the one who’s concerned about things being ‘inappropriate’, after all. There’s no need for him to know that your heart is beating so fast that it feels like it’s about to jackhammer out of your chest.

“Goodnight,” you mumble as soon as your head hits the pillow. His body heat is like a furnace, warming you up perfectly from a foot away, and the thin sheet is warm like it’s been waiting for you to climb in. He says something under his breath- ‘goodnight’, maybe- but it’s been such a long day that you fall asleep in what feels like seconds without responding.

When you wake up to the sound of Aaron’s phone alarm, you’re much less than a foot away from each other in the warmest bed you’ve ever known. He’s curled up against your back, one of his arms slung around your waist to hold you to his chest. Previous experience with room-sharing tells you that he doesn’t wake up at the first alarm- he usually sets two or three, a few minutes apart- and you’ve got a couple of minutes to just be.

The sound of the alarm grates on you, but it must be on a timer because it stops ringing after a minute or so, and you relax back into Aaron. His cheek is resting against the back of your head, and you can hear his steady breaths in time with the rise and fall of his chest against you. It feels good, it feels right to wake up like this. You don’t want it to end, but you know that it has to.

When the second alarm goes off, he rouses with a little startle, like he doesn’t remember where he is. The arm around your waist tightens, just for a moment, as his body relaxes into yours. Soft as a whisper, you could swear that you feel warm lips brush the shell of your ear before he pulls his arm away and sits up.

The room is just as dark now as it was a few hours ago, and Aaron manages to fumble for his phone and quiet the alarm before he speaks. His voice is raspier than it was in the middle of the night when he checks the time and then says, “It’s almost a quarter to seven. Er, did you sleep well?”

“Very.” You yawn as you sit up, stretching both arms above your head. “I wouldn’t complain about a couple more hours, though. That whole same-bed thing works wonders.”

Aaron yawns too, turning away to grab his go-bag as he stands up. “I’m glad to hear it. You can go shower. I’ll change out here.”

“Deal.” You gather your own things when you get to your feet, disappearing into the bathroom to get ready for the day. Your mind is already on the case, pushing aside all thoughts of sleep arrangements and large arms holding you close in favour of your job. When you exit the bathroom, Aaron is already gone.

When you meet with the team in the lobby, you find out that he headed to the station right away to get ahead on the case. Everyone bundles up before walking back to the precinct; the walk is no warmer than it was last night, and fresh snow begins to fall just as you get to the doors of the precinct.

Once you find your way to the same room as yesterday, you find Hotch already there, dressed in yesterday’s fleece. He’s got a Tim Horton’s cup in one hand, and he sips it while staring, perplexed, at the geographic profile. “Good morning,” he greets everyone at once. “Reid, I was thinking. If we intersect his old hideout parameters from Minnesota and Georgia with his murders here, then…” their chatter fades into white noise as you turn your attention to the files lining the tables.

The first hour passes in a blur, the conference room lit only by harsh overhead fluorescents as you trade theories and examine new evidence provided by the local officers. The clock is just announcing the arrival of 9 AM, the sky beginning to brighten slightly, when you realize that you need coffee.

You’ve got the same setup as yesterday in that regard, too. One of the officers must have picked up a fresh traveller for you, evidenced by the steam rolling off of the coffee that Hotch is pouring for himself. “How’s it going?” He asks, stirring two creams and two sugars into his coffee.

“No big break yet, but I’m sure we’re close. We’re going to get this guy soon,” you promise, and Hotch nods at that. “I wanted to thank you again. For, you know. Helping me sleep last night.”

“It was no trouble,” he assures you, fiddling with the stir stick in his hand. “It was helpful for me, too.”

“And, hey.” You lower your voice a bit, and Hotch leans in to hear you better. “Maybe we can do it again tonight. You know, if that’s okay with you.”

He gives you a smile, that tight-lipped one you’re used to seeing around the office. “It’s alright with me. I just don’t want to… well, I’m your boss. I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. It has no impact on my views of your professionalism.”

There’s that word again. You wish he could be a little less professional, for once. But he’s right, he’s your boss, and there are certain things he can’t say first. Your profiling skills tell you that he still wants to say them though. “Well, what happens in Canada can stay in Canada,” you half-jest.

“It can, if you want it to,” he murmurs. He still hasn’t taken a sip of his coffee, and he hands the cup to you while he pours a second one. “The sun will be coming up, soon.”

He’s right. Pale orange is streaking the sky through the large conference room window, tracing pink lines around the edge of the sun that’s just starting to peek up into the prairie sky. The snow is still falling, painting a picturesque image in the sky “It’s gorgeous,” you comment, taking a sip of your coffee. Without taking your eyes off the sky, you step a little closer to Hotch.

“Yes,” he agrees, holding his coffee in his right hand. His left rests on the table that your back is against, and it might be wishful thinking, but you think that he would wrap that arm around you again if there were no one else around. “It certainly is.”

----

“Longest week of my life,” Emily complains as soon as you’re airborne, a mere three days later. The unsub has been apprehended and is in federal custody of the country you’re returning home to. “But those beds were insanely comfortable. I haven’t slept that well in months.”

You and Aaron exchange a glance, a double-layered inside joke about why Emily slept so well and why exactly you both slept so well for several nights in a row. 

The last four nights have brought with them some of the best rest of your life. You’ve grown familiar with the feeling of Aaron’s arms around you in the morning, and by day three he stopped jerking them away as soon as he woke up.

That was the same day he asked you out, his gaze averted while he fiddled with a gold-coloured coin that he had received as change when he went out to buy a coffee. You had agreed, of course, and had assured him more than once that it didn’t matter that he’s your boss. You want him, and you have for ages.

On the fourth day, just this morning, he had held you a little tighter when he woke up and rumbled, “Morning, baby,” against your ear. If he hadn’t felt your heart beating around in your chest before, he had certainly felt it then.

Despite the fact that you’ve got a date planned with the man you’ve been cuddling for the better part of a week, you’re ready to tease Emily for cuddling JJ, before Spencer chimes in.

“I thought that the beds were quite comfortable, also. According to Sheriff McCartney, they’re primarily a transit town, which runs on a completely different economic structure than a transit village. The economy depends on truckers and people on road trips or similar travel to sleep in their hotels and eat at their restaurants,” he explains. “It’s fascinating, actually; transit towns pour the majority of their resources into making sure travellers making one-night stays enjoy themselves enough that they take the same route on the way home, thus giving the town more business.”

“The only business I want from that town is the name of whoever supplies those blankets,” Derek says, grinning. “That thing was so heavy, it was like getting crushed to sleep. Exactly what I needed with all that cool air blowing in.”

“Your room wasn’t too hot?” You ask, your nose scrunching up. “I think the heat was broken in mine. It was just hot air the whole time, every night. Way too hot to sleep.”

“Ours was like that on the first night,” JJ recalls, and Emily nods in agreement. “It was awful.”

“Right?” You complain, sinking further down into your seat. Hotch is sitting to your right, his face an impassive mask while he watches the exchange. “Let me guess, you guys shared a… uh…” 

Your teasing falters when the look on both JJ's and Emily’s faces tells you that, no, they did not share a bed, and you’ve just implied your solution to the heater problem. “We used the other blankets,” Emily says slowly, her eyes narrowing. “Didn’t you?”

“Oh! Oh, the other blankets. Yeah, the ones in the nightstand.” You nod along, your mortification growing in time with JJ’s smirk.

“They were in the closet,” she corrects you, obviously trying not to laugh. “I guess we know how you and Hotch stayed warm.”

You don’t need to look at your boss’- boss? Friend? Lover? You aren’t too sure right now- face to know that his cheeks are dusted rosy pink. “It wasn’t like that,” you protest to deaf ears as Derek whoops and high-fives Emily.

“About time,” he snickers at the look on your face. “So, when’s the first date?”

“It’s not-” you start to say, but Hotch speaks before you can.

“Friday.”

Your eyes widen and you turn to him. He raises one shoulder and smiles, like What was I supposed to say? “Friday,” you relent a moment later.

Derek is still grinning ear to ear like a maniac, and even Spencer cracks a smile when Aaron snakes one arm slowly around your waist. The sun is rising on one side of the jet, and the orange glow illuminates his face.

For one suspended moment, everything is perfect. You’ve got a date for this Friday, you’re more well-rested than you’ve felt in ages, and your team doesn’t seem to care that you and your boss are much closer than you were a couple of weeks ago. It’s a blissful moment to you, and it’s only broken by Emily’s gleeful not-quite-a whisper to JJ. “Penelope is going to be pissed that she missed this.”

Fluffy Feb masterlist | < Prev Day | Next Day >

Fluffy Feb tags: @doctorsteths-fluffyfeb @iammirrorball @hausofwhores @allthefandomstogether @myweepingangel @hotched @spacecowboyhotch @chibsytelford @honeybrowne @formulapierre @nd264 @hotchnerxnegan1017 (send me a dm or ask to be tagged!)

[kurtcobainsgreencardigan]

is there a band/musician you recommend to everyone? Do you think you’re a good driver? Do you have a favorite word?

hmmmm i sit in silence and wait until someone asks me music recs but when it actually happens i blank and cry, i'll try to do a good job though

Maybe the Beatles, you'd think at this point there's no one who hasn't heard the Beatles but you'd be surprise. They have everything, they made surf, blues, folk, rock n roll, actual rock, maybe even pop. The only issue is that there are some people who exclusively listen to music made in this century and if that's you, I'd suggest to give Paul McCartney a try. Yes, he's 81. Yes, he's still making music. Hell, he's on tour!

Or just listen to Harry Styles I guess, he has rock, pop, folk, what else could you ask for? And it that doesn't do it for you, just look at his face!

I'm a bad driver. I've tried to deny it but there's no use. I'm not allowed to take the car after what happened last time. At least I haven't crashed into anyone (although I almost did). I can drive to the convenience store 3 minutes from my house without incident. Maybe I'll drive on the pavement, who knows?

I don't know if I have a favorite word, but I hate HATE the word "squirrel", I don't know why, I hate how it's pronounced, I hate it's written, I hate EVERYTHING about it! No shade to the actual squirrel though I love them they're adorable and fluffy probably.

[midchelle]

how would you rank the beatles album covers?

like this:

13) "By the way, what happened to my idea of putting the parody of our first album cover on the Let It Be cover?” - John Lennon, 1971

Just uninspired. Good for coming up with conspiracy theories about the death of Paul McCartney but not much else.

12) Eyes Still Work After Seeing This? Includes a 24-Page Full Colour Picture Book!

Every time I look at this I find another bizarre thing, but that's not even the real issue because it fails on the basic level where you can figure out what the product is and who made it. The red tinting on the highlight behind the font they used to list the songs makes it hard to read, and BEATLES blends into the background so well you might not even realise it's there. Did they use the circle to design this cover? PAUL?

11) A Covers Band So Good, Sometimes We Even Let Them Sing Their Own Songs!

It might be because of the asymmetrical Beatle heads. It might be because they got beaten to the edge-to-edge cover punch by The Rolling Stones. It might be because it makes me think of the uncanny Mr Incredible meme.

10) POV: You Are Falling To Your Death

I actually like this picture quite a lot but it upsets me... why couldn't they just typeset it so the railings and the writing were going in the same direction...

9) Damn Bro You Got The Whole Squad Laughing

In many ways, she is who With The Beatles wishes she was, but I can't rank it any higher because it's literally just a picture of them. Look, they've had a rough year.

8) Paul is Dead Evidence 2: Electric Boogaloo

The art is nice, but it does just seem like a retread of the Revolver cover. Bit unexciting.

7)

Part of me wishes they'd gone the whole Yeezus route and packaged it in a clear plastic sleeve with THE BEATLES embossed on it, but the blank white is also pretty evocative. There's a whole chapter in Moby Dick about how terrifying the colour white is.

6)  The Beatles, N-U-J-V!

It makes me think of Weezer's Blue Album and that's why it's good.

5) The Beatles Demonstrate The Many Ways To Have A Face

Not many people know this but the middle picture in the George row was actually used as the Tumblr default icon way back in the day.

4) This Strain is Called “Rubber Soul” 😳 You’ll Be Zonked Out Of Your Gourd 💯

'When first I saw your latest LP sleeve My eyes, dear Beatles, I could scarce believe There's nobody, I feel, could like it much Except, perhaps, the vampire-minded Sutch. I tried to Work It Out, but I could not, Why such a very photogenic lot Should want to see yourselves portrayed as freaks;'

- Annabel Lee

3) Honey, They're Crossing The Road Again

Deserves the dub for the sheer achievement of taking a picture of four people in motion where they all look good.

2)

Before you get mad at Klaus for dissing Paul McCartney, remember that he a) made the Revolver cover and b) was really hot. So he can basically do whatever he wants.

1) Paul Is Dead Evidence 3: Faul's Revenge

I still don't know what that creature in the chair is supposed to be.

[holfelderwrites124]

Severed Threads

Chapter 4: Hospital

(Chapter 3: Fights and Fainting)

Aisha locks the apartment door behind them as John helps Ian down the hallway towards the exit. The two of them move at Ian’s pace, which is a slow, halting one so foreign to Ian’s usual purposeful stride. Aisha can tell Ian is trying his hardest to keep it together, but one look at his pale, pinched face tells her all she needs to know: he is not feeling well. John keeps one arm wrapped around Ian’s waist as he guides Ian through the doors and to Aisha’s car.

Aisha snags the keys from John as soon as he unlocks the car. “I’m driving.”

John glances at her, surprise on his face. “You two are closer. Ian probably wants you back here.”

Aisha gives the two of them a wry grin. “Yeah, and you’re the EMT. If he goes down again, I think we’ll all feel a lot better if you’re back there with him.”

John nods, conceding her point. “Ian?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ian mutters, his words slurring just a bit.

John makes an unhappy face at Aisha, then gently prods Ian into the car. Once everyone is settled, Aisha turns the car on, backs out of their parking spot, and they’re off to the hospital. They ride in silence for a few moments, and then John’s training kicks in. He doubts Ian would admit to being a victim of domestic abuse in this situation — he’d claim that he wasn’t hit so it doesn’t count. John has been on enough domestic violence calls that he knows the line between hitting and hurting is nothing but a mark in the sand.

“Ian? How are you feeling?” John keeps his voice soft, comforting, non-confrontational.

Ian rolls his head to look at John. “Okay, I guess. Dizzy.”

“With the dehydration, I’m not surprised.” John curls his fingers around Ian’s wrist. “Your pulse is still pretty fast, too.” He studies Ian for a moment. “Ian, you know I have to ask. What happened?”

Ian stiffens, a slight enough movement that most people would have missed it. John’s done enough of these interviews to clock the change in body language. Ian side-eyes John, then glances away. There’s guilt in his eyes, guilt that breaks John’s heart. From what he’s heard and seen about the McCartney’s, John is pretty sure that Ian has done nothing worthy of the heartbreak on his face.

“Ian, you can’t keep this inside all the time.” John lightly squeezes Ian’s wrist. “We’ve got your back, Aisha and I.”

Ian studies John. “I told you,” he murmurs. “I … I pissed Abby off.” He shrugs again, glancing out of the window. “She got mad and … told me not to come back … for a few days.” He gives John a wry smile. “It’s my own fault.”

John shakes his head. “If you’re living with Abby and Dennis, they shouldn’t be kicking you out of the house, no matter what you did or didn’t do.” John takes a slow breath. “What was it about coming to see us that made Abby mad?”

“She just … she doesn’t like it when I spend time with anyone other than them.” Ian sighs. “And I … phrased it wrong. I said I wanted a night off, and that … made her mad.” Ian scrubs a hand across his face. “I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

John has something to say about that — namely that Ian’s phraseology is the least of the problems with this situation — but he can tell Ian isn’t in a space to receive that right now. Instead, he opts for another question.

“Where have you been staying, then, for the last few days?”

Ian glances at John, with more fear in his eyes than John expected for such a simple question. He’s not sure why Ian looks so frightened — how hard is it to admit that he was staying in some random hotel in the city? Or even a rental apartment or something like that — no matter how much money Ian had to spend, it’s not like John’s going to judge him for that.

Ian sighs. “I didn’t have my wallet,” he whispers. “I didn’t … I didn’t have my credit card or … anything.” He blinks up at John, begging him to fill in the blanks.

John does. “You … Ian, have you been staying in your car?”

Ian nods, but says nothing. His gaze drops to his hands, and he refuses to glance up, even when John curls a gentle hand around Ian’s arm.

“Ian, what the fuck?!” Aisha half-shouts from the front seat. “What — you’ve been in your  car? We totally could have put you up! No wonder you look like shit. Have you even eaten anything? What—”

“Aisha,” John says, a warning in his tone. “Not right now.”

Aisha glares at him in the rear-view mirror, but quiets with a huff.

John turns back to Ian, who has curled in on himself. It looks like he’s expecting to get chewed out even more. John’s heart breaks for Ian. He’s had a soft spot for Aisha’s friend ever since he met the brown-haired agent with eyes that pull you in and won’t let go. Frankly, John doesn’t like to look to closely at the way he feels about Ian — the man is in a relationship that’s closed at best and … not ethically non-monogamous at worst. John usually stuffs those questions down deep inside, and he does so right now. Ian needs a friend, nothing more — no matter how much John longs to pull him into a slightly-more-than-friends hug.

Instead, John squeezes Ian’s arm. “Hey, it’s okay, Ian. We’re just … we’re just worried about you. That … living in your car … you shouldn’t have had to do that.”

Ian peers over at John from under a shock of hair that has fallen over his eyes. “I didn’t want to be a bother,” he whispers.

John sighs. “Ian, you could never be a bother,” he says, letting a touch of emotion creep into his voice. He clears his throat. “I know Aisha agrees.”

“I do. We are having a conversation later.” She huffs. “But I’ll put that off. We’re here. Let’s go.” Aisha throws the car in park and then turns around to look at Ian. Her face softens upon seeing his expression. “Oh, Ian.” She reaches out and drops a hand onto his knee. “Hey, we’re going to get you feeling better, and then we’ll deal with … all the rest of this.”

Ian gives Aisha a small nod and an even smaller smile. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Aisha squeezes Ian’s knee. “Let’s go.”

John slides out of the back seat, then helps Ian climb out. Ian is decidedly more wobbly than he was getting into the car. He’s clearly dizzy, and clings to John as they inch towards the entrance to the ER.

They eventually make it into the hospital, but get stuck in triage. The emergency department is bustling, and the three of them are shoved into the waiting room. Ian is stable, so they are left with a promise that someone will call them back when a bed clears. Aisha is understandably frustrated, but used the time to sneak off and call Paul. She hopes that if she gets him to come, Ian might open up to Paul. Aisha and Ian are close, but Ian trusts Paul in a way that doesn’t quite match his trust in Aisha. John agrees to stick around to keep watch over Ian.

Ian slumps into a chair, drops his head into his hands, and seems to fall asleep. John keeps a careful eye on him. He is equally frustrated at the slow pace of the hospital but fully understands what goes on behind the scenes. As much as he wants Ian to be seen, he knows there are others who have more pressing needs.

At least, right up until Ian goes limp again, elbows sliding off of his knees and body slumping forward. John manages to catch him and lower him slowly to the floor, all while shouting for help. Aisha comes flying into the waiting room, only to be pushed out of the way as the triage team surrounds Ian. He takes a little longer to come back around this time, earning him an urgent bump up in order of importance. They transfer Ian to a stretcher and move him to a small private room in the emergency department.

Ian is decidedly out of it, reporting one hell of a headache and a lot of dizziness. He just lays back on the stretcher, one arm flung over his eyes, until a nurse finally gets an IV running with fluids and a “migraine cocktail”, as John knows it to be, for the headache. An aide brings Ian some apple juice, explaining that his blood sugar is low and that he needs to bring it up quickly. Ian is poked and prodded into get up and start drinking the juice. He squints irritably at Aisha when she helps him sit up, but dutifully starts sipping through the straw.

Aisha remains at Ian’s side when the doctor comes in to check on Ian.

“Ian is severely dehydrated,” Doctor Amara Patel reports. “His electrolytes are completely out of whack. We’ve got him on a saline drip, and I’ve ordered potassium and magnesium.” Amara glances at Ian’s half-finished apple juice and the packaging from his sandwich that John fetched for him. “His blood sugar is also very low. I see they’ve got you started on some juice and that you finished your sandwich. Good. I want them to bring you some more juice, based on your numbers, and then we’ll see how things are adjusting.” The doctor gives them all a smile. “I want to keep Ian here for a while, just to make sure he stabilizes and that there’s nothing else going on here.”

Amara talks to them for a few moments, answering Aisha’s questions and keeping a watchful eye on Ian. Once Aisha’s concerns are satisfied, the doctor leaves them with a promise to return.

Almost as soon as the doctor leaves, there’s another knock on the door. All three of them glance up and find Paul Moss standing there, concern written on his face.

Ian straightens up. “Paul?”

“Hey, kid.” Paul strides into the room, stopping next to Ian’s bed. “How you feeling?”

Ian gives Paul a wobbly smile. “Been better, honestly.”

Paul nods. “That sounds about right.”

“How … how did you get here?” Ian asks.

“Aisha called me.” Paul says, his tone careful. If Ian feels too pressured to talk, he’ll clam up.

Ian’s face shutters. He glowers at Aisha. “I don’t want to talk about it.” His words are harsh, but his tone wavers in a way that Paul — trained to pick up on these things — easily catches.

Paul turns to Aisha and John, ready to ask them to step out for a bit. Aisha manages to read his intentions.

“Hey, John and I are going to head down to find something to eat. We’ll bring some things back for you two.” Aisha smiles at Ian, gently patting his arm. “Talk to Paul. Please?”

Ian huffs. “I’m fine.”

Aisha raises her eyebrows at Ian. “Talk.” She grabs John’s hand the two of them slip out of the room, leaving Paul and Ian behind.

Ian stares up at Paul, his hazel eyes huge in his pale face. Paul studies Ian for a moment, noting how damn thin the kid is. He looks as if he hasn’t put on weight at all in the five years Paul has known him — he’s thin, pale, and sickly, in a way that Paul is certain he hasn’t always been. Ian used to be a healthy, vibrant young man. Paul had enjoyed watching him flourish in his position at the FBI, enjoyed getting to mentor Ian and later becoming his friend.

Then Ian — perpetually lonely Ian — had finally stopped the casual — failed — dating and started a serious relationship with Abby McCartney and her husband Dennis. Paul watched as Ian’s bright eyes dulled, his ever-present smile dimmed, and his joyful personality suffered. He had tried for a long time to talk to Ian about Abby and Dennis, but Ian always rebuffed him. Paul was determined not to be put off this time.

Paul grabs a chair and pulls it up to the side of Ian’s bed. He sits down and then looks up at Ian. Paul holds Ian’s gaze for a long moment, saying nothing, just letting Ian sit in the silence. Finally, Ian sighs and drops his eyes.

“It’s my fault, I swear,” Ian says quietly. “I pissed Abby off. I know better than to do that. I shouldn’t have argued with her. I should have just … I should have … I … oh, fuck.” Ian drops his face into his hands.

“If Shannon kicked me out of the house, because I wanted to go hang out with you for a night, what would you be telling me?” Paul’s voice is soft, non-confrontational.

Ian jerks his head out of his hands. “She wouldn’t!”

Paul smiles. “No, she wouldn’t. Why is that?”

Ian sighs. “She’s too nice.”

Paul snorts in amusement. “You’re correct, but that’s not what I’m going for here.” Paul leans back and rests his hands on his knees. “Ian, Shannon wouldn’t forbid me from seeing you because it is healthy to have friends and relationships outside of your primary romantic relationship, regardless of if it’s polyamorous or monogamous. You need friends, they support you.”

“I know,” Ian whispers.

“Then why are you acting like Abby throwing you out of the house is a perfectly normal response?” Paul’s tone remains gentle.

“It’s the way I said it. That I needed a break. I shouldn’t have said it like that. It … made it sound like I didn’t want to be around them.” Ian wraps his arms around himself in a way that Paul is familiar with. Ian is not just uncomfortable, he’s holding something back.

“Did you? Want to be around them?”

Ian shakes his head, eyes filling up with tears. “No,” he breathes. He dashes his hands against his eyes angrily. “Shit, I don’t want to cry.”

“It’s okay to need a break from your partners,” Paul says softly. He hesitates before asking the next question. “Why didn’t you want to be around them, Ian?”

Ian takes a shaky breath. He stares down at his knees. “I … I … I’m …” Ian huffs. “All they want from me is sex,” he finally manages, so quiet that Paul has to strain to hear it. Ian glances up at Paul, waiting for judgment.

It’s the answer Paul was expecting, but it hurts to hear it in Ian’s deathly quiet whisper. Paul knows Ian is on what Aisha calls the asexual spectrum — that Ian struggles with engaging in sexual experiences sometimes, prefers to be left out of them, even is repulsed by them sometimes. Why Ian ended up with two people who are fully invested in his sexual performances is beyond Paul — but he suspects it’s in part because Ian is just so hungry for love and affection.

Paul gives Ian a comforting smile. “And sometimes you don’t want to give that to them,” he fills in.

Ian nods. “A lot of the time, lately.” His voice is still near a whisper, as if he’s afraid Abby and Dennis will hear him all the way from their home, miles away.

“Why lately?” Paul asks.

“I’m just so tired. I’ve been working overtime to pay for the mortgage on the house, and that leaves—”

“You mean your rent?” Paul cuts in.

Ian shakes his head. “Nah, I’m covering the mortgage.” He opens his mouth to consider, but must catch the look on Paul’s face. “What?”

“You’re covering the mortgage on their house? The whole mortgage?”

“Yeah.”

“Ian, that’s … that’s ridiculous. What the hell?” Paul leans forward. “Ian, you should not be covering the mortgage on that house. You didn’t buy it. At most you should split it in thirds. At most. You didn’t purchase the house, you’re there renting, basically.”

Ian stares at Paul, wheels clearly turning in his head.

“Ian, is this why you’ve been working overtime lately?” Paul prods.

Ian nods. “Yeah. I … they … wanted … more? For groceries and everything? So I needed to make more hours.”

Paul sighs. “Ian …”

“This isn’t normal, is it?” Ian cuts him off, his voice quiet but tinged with an understanding that gives Paul hope.”

“No, Ian.” Paul shakes his head. “I can’t speak for polyamorous habits, Aisha would be better suited to tell you about those, but I can tell you that no one should be charging you the entire mortgage plus groceries and whatever else they’re making you pay.” Paul leans forward and rests a hand on Ian’s knee. “They’re taking advantage of you Ian.”

Ian stares back at Paul, tears pooling in his eyes again. He shakes his head. “No. No, I … but I … Paul—”

“Ian, a healthy relationship doesn’t kick one partner out because they needed a break from their routine.” Paul squeezes Ian’s knee. “A healthy relationship doesn’t make one partner pay for everything, especially at the expense of that partner’s health. A—”

“My health is fine,” Ian interjects.

Paul raises his eyebrows. “You’re saying that from the ER on a Friday night while an IV replenishes your electrolytes and fluid.” Paul huffs. “Ian, have you gained any weight since you were twenty-three?”

Ian blinks at him. “Abby hates when I start to get fat,” he says matter-of-factly.

“You’re too thin by far, Ian. You should not be at the weight you were when you started at the Academy.” Paul tilts his head. “That’s not healthy.”

“I need to stay thin for work, Paul, you know that.”

Paul raises an eyebrow. “Thin does not equal healthy. You haven’t looked healthy in ages, Ian.” Paul pokes his own midsection. “I’ve got quite a few pounds on you, and I’m pretty sure I could still outrun you, stamina-wise. My body has what it needs to work. I’m not sure yours does.”

Ian shakes his head. “I’m fine, Ian. Abby just prefers that I—”

“Look fucking anorexic?” Paul growls, a bit harsher than he intended.

Ian reels back like he’s been slapped. “I … I do not?” He tries for offended, but misses, ending up sounding uncertain.

“Kid, I could dead-lift you. That’s a problem.”

Silence falls around them as Ian contemplates everything that Paul has said in the past several minutes. After a bit, Paul sighs softly.

“Think about it, Ian. Just … think about what I’ve said.” Paul glances around the room. “Are … are Abby and Dennis coming to get you to take you home?”

Ian shakes his head so quickly that Paul is afraid he’ll get whiplash. “No! No, I don’t … no.”

Paul blinks at Ian. “Oh?”

Ian swallows, glancing away. “I, uh … I’m just …” He sighs. “I feel like shit, Paul. Abby’s just going to march in here yelling at me, and Dennis …” Ian shudders. “I don’t feel like dealing with how clingy Dennis is right now.”

Paul thinks that says enough about Ian’s relationship with the McCartney’s, but he chooses not to push Ian too hard right now. “Alright. Where are you going tonight, then?”

Ian looks utterly confused. “I don’t … know?”

“What was your plan before you fainted on Aisha and John?”

Ian shrugs. “My car, I guess.”

“Ian! You … you could have called me, you know. Before. When Abby kicked you out. Me, or Aisha. We … either of us would have put you up, no fuss.” Paul sighs. “Alright, fine. You get to pick, who do you want to put up with, me and Shannon and the kids, or Aisha and John?” Ian opens his mouth, and Paul interrupts him. “Neither is not an option.”

Ian considers. “I love your kids but … I don’t want them to see me like this.”

Paul nods. “Alright, Aisha and John it is.”

“What — I can’t impose. They might not — want me?”

Paul shakes his head. “Aisha and I talked when she called me. She’s more than willing to take you in for a night at least.” Paul purses his lips. “Listen, Ian. Think about what we talked about, please? Stay with Aisha and John as long as you need. Just … think about it.”

“I will,” Ian says softly. “I promise.”

Chapter 5: Respite or Run

Taglist: @lofiyaketyblr

(comment if you want to be on my taglist :) )

[philcollinsenjoyer]

i will say one thing i staunchly refuse to engage in beatles lyrics analysis to me it's like searching for human faces on a blank wall it's basically a roschach test EXCEPT for paul mccartney saying he wrote two of us for his wife. me when i'm a lying bitch

[paulmcutiecutie]

Dude George was fucking insane for this

God this scene. Paul is being so so vulnerable with them all just to get their dismissive reactions. Johns just shrugging it off as if it doesn’t affect him at all, and George passive aggressively responding as if it doesn’t annoy him.

“I’m scared of me being the leader. And I have been for some time now…” OWWW PAAAUL.. he’s being so honest because he absolutely hates giving input just to have them stare at him silently with blank discontent faces.

He keeps going “I’m not trying to annoy you… you keep doing it, see you’re doing it again. Where you act like I’m annoying you” PAUL MCCARTNEY. YOU AND YOUR BPD TRAUMATIZED SELF. He can just tell off Georges tone that he’s upset even if George keeps insisting otherwise

I’m not saying Paul is like an innocent little baby victim, not my intention. I’m just saying I really feel for him and how open he’s being in this clip just to be sort of… ignored. I love how complicated their relationships were ugh

"whatever it is that will please you, I'll do it"

[findsilver]

George and I lived very near each other in Liverpool. So, in fact, we were just a bust stop away from each other. I'd get on the bus, and then the stop afterwards George would get on.  (...)  Might have been a failing  of mine, to tend to talk down to him, because I’d known him as a younger kid.   —  ANTHOLOGY, EPISODE 1.

[topguncortez]

[ STEAM ] and [ SERENADE ] for our angel goose? ❤️

in this house. . . goose never died.

Steam & Serenade pairing: Nick 'Goose' Bradshaw x female!reader ➣warnings: mentions of infertility, arguments, false positive pregnancy ➣prompts: ➣[steam] sender joins receiver in the shower, [Serenade] sender sings along to a song they associate with receiver ➣song: Silly Love Songs by Paul McCartney

Goose let out a sigh as he let his heavy duffle back hit the floor. He kicked off his brown dress shoes, and undid the buttons of his khaki dress shirt. It was yet another day trying to stay out of trouble with Maverick. He had thought after the first day and getting nearly kicked out for an unsolicited flyby would’ve woken Maverick up, but it clearly didn’t. Cause yet again, Goose was standing outside of Viper’s office waiting to get another punishment. This time, it was 500 push-ups on the flight deck in the hot California sun. Goose could not wait until they could go back to Virginia. 

“Sweetheart?” Goose called out for you. The house was quiet, which was unusual. You two weren’t quiet people. The house was usually filled with music, or the tv, or the sound of dinner being made, but right now, it was silent, and Goose was concerned, “Y/N!?” 

His sock covered feet moved through the small house that he was allotted during his time at TOPGUN. It wasn’t anything special, but it was better than the first house the two of you lived in when you were first married. You had grown up in the military, your father being an Admiral, so you knew how these things went. You didn’t expect a fancy house with a white picket fence, and you knew how to be ready to move at a moment’s notice. Goose had loved how you just knew what it was like for him. He hated having to be away from you, or to have to pack up from one location and leave, but it made it easier having a partner who understood. 

“Babe!” His voice came out lighter as he walked into the bedroom, and noticed the bathroom door was shut. He could hear the soft sounds of a record being played, and sighed in relief. You were okay, though he hadn’t found you yet, you were still somewhat okay. He walked over to the bathroom door, knocking twice before entering. He could see the outline of your naked body through the steam clouds in the bathroom. You must’ve had a bad day too. 

“Sweets?” Goose called out to you again, causing you to jump out of the blank stare you were in. You turned your head and smiled at the sight of your husband, slightly disheveled, his khaki shirt completely unbuttoned showing the white tank top he wore underneath and his dog tags. Usually the sight of him like this, turned you on to no extent, but right now, all you wanted was to be in his arms. That one look you gave him was enough to have Goose take the rest of his uniform off, and walk over to the shower door. 

“It’s hot, just an FYI,” You said, taking a step forward to let him in. 

“What is it with you women having the shower blazing hot?” Goose quipped, as he got in. He tensed slightly at the hot water touching his back, but then settled into it. It was right what he needed too. He could feel the tension of the day slowly start to roll off his body. Even though he showered after his flight and his pushups, He wouldn’t turn down a moment to come and be in the shower with you. 

“How was your day?” You asked, and you felt him wrap his arms around you. He turned you around so you could face him, and pulled you flush against him. You could feel the beating of his heart, and placed a hand on his chest. Goose had noticed you did that a lot, placing a hand on his chest to feel his heartbeat. It was a way to help ground you, to make you feel less anxious. It had come from a traumatic event in your childhood, and Goose had woken up several times at night to the feeling of your hand on his heart. 

“Same ol’, same o’,” Goose said, dropping his head to that place between your neck and shoulder, pressing small kisses into your skin, “Mav is being Mav, still trying to have a dick measuring contest with Ice. I told him, maybe just kiss him and get it over with. End all of our suffering.” 

You chuckled and shook your head, “You know how Maverick is. He’ll do everything BUT the rational thing.” 

“I know,” Goose said, and lifted his head, “How was your day?” 

You took a deep breath before answering, “Good.” 

“Liar, you took a breath before answering,” Goose said pointing out your tell right away, “I’ve known you for over a decade, sweets. I can tell when you lie to me. So. . . out with it.” 

“I went to the doctor today,” You said, and looked at the water droplets falling down his chest. Goose tensed for a moment, and then pushed back your hair that had fallen in front of your face, “Still no answers on why I can’t get pregnant. Just the same ‘it’s not your time’ bullshit we’ve been hearing for the past year.” 

From the moment Goose met you, he knew you were going to be the mother of his children. After marrying him five years ago, you two had been determined to start a family quickly, before he had to be sent off around the world again. At first, you two were okay with the fact that it was taking a bit more to get pregnant. Goose and Maverick were young pilots, and took every mission that came their way. But things had started to grow tense after trying and trying, and no results. Arguments had sprung between the two of you like wildfire. Sex felt more like a chore than it should’ve been. Maverick even had to intervene one time, telling you two to go to opposite sides of the house like you were children.

Goose had suggested that the two of you just get away from everything, and you did. He took you up to the mountains of Colorado for a week, to decompress from the stress (poor Maverick was like a lost puppy that week without his ‘parents’). It was like you and Goose had reconnected in that week, reminding each other why they fell in love in the first place. The days were filled with exploring and skiing, and the nights were filled with intense love making. 

It was four weeks later, you realized your period was late. You could remember Goose nearly breaking down the bathroom door as you let out a shriek in delight at the sight of the positive pregnancy test. He thought you had seen another spider in the bathroom and came in with a rolled up newspaper. But when you told him you were pregnant, his face turned into pure excitement. That excitement didn’t last long, as two weeks after that, you sat in the doctor’s office being told that it was a false positive, and you weren’t pregnant. 

After that moment, Goose had seen a shift in you. You pulled away from Goose, once again opening the door from arguments. You had buried yourself into trying to find an answer, something that would satisfy you better than what your OB had given you. You were tired of the same old answer: ‘you’re healthy, Goose is healthy, it’s just not your time’. Goose had told you the same thing the doctors had, and tried to get you to rest, but you refused. You hated fighting with him, and he hated it too. You two managed to reconcile as Goose went on his deployment with Maverick, and you promised him that you would just take a break, instead of scouring books, magazines, and doctors for answers. The day you got that call that he was coming home and going to TOPGUN, you were elated and already starting to pack his bags for him (if you didn’t, the man, bless his heart, was sure to forget something vital). 

Now that you are here, you decided to take up your sister’s advice and visit a doctor out here in California that she recommended. You had hoped that the new doctor might be able to help you, give you a better answer, but it was the same thing as you had heard before. Goose sighed, and ran his fingers down your back, in a soothing motion. 

“I know it sucks, and you’ll probably punch me for this, but they are right, sweets. We’ll get our chance, I know we will. I never thought I’d get to TOPGUN, but here I am. Our time is coming, I feel it,” Goose said, and smiled, “Come on, don’t frown. I don’t like seeing that.” 

You broke out a small smile. How could you not smile in the presence of Nicholas Bradshaw? He was the definition of sunshine personified. Him walking into a room could light up the gloom. He smiled, and placed a kiss on your lips. 

“Let me wash your hair,” Goose said, and you nodded, turning around so your back was facing him. He hummed as he grabbed your shampoo from the shower caddy, putting some in his hands, before lathering it into his hair, “You’d think that people would have had enough of silly love songs. . .” He mumbled under his breath as he scrubbed at your scalp. You smiled, it was the song that was your first dance at your wedding. 

“But I look around and see it isn’t so,” He continued to sing as he pulled you back into the water, and rinsed your hair. Goose had fallen in love with washing your hair. When you broke your leg when you two were dating, he had discovered that showering could mean more than sex. He remembered vividly the first time you asked him to help you shower, and he was terrified he was going to drop you, but you trusted him, and that meant so much to him. Ever since then, any chance he got to help you wash your hair, he was jumping at the chance. 

“How can I tell you about my loved one?” Goose gently combed his fingers through your hair, spreading the lavender conditioner you used. He never thought he could love the smell of soap so much. “And now. . . we let it sit in your hair because ‘the curls need it to hydrate’” He said in a mock feminine voice. You giggled and turned around. 

“Surprised after all this time, you remembered my hair care routine.” 

“Of course, sweets, how could I forget? Wash day is every three days, deep conditioner is a must, and to never dry brush your hair it breaks the curls,” Goose repeated pretty much everything you had ever told him about your hair. 

“This is why I love you.”

[waveofahand]

Blankface McCartney Through the Ages

15th Century: Son, is it true you stole Lady Pennyworthy’s virtue on the night before she was meant to wed Sir Moneybags?

18th Century: Son, there is a revolution over in the colonies. Do your patriotic duty and go fight for England and the crown! 

20th Century, 1960: Paul, did you just threaten to beat up Stu because you don’t like his face? 

20th Century, 1990: Paul, can we turn you into a Disney Prince? 

Can’t get enough of this app.  Freaking life-ruiner. 

[waveofahand]

When Paul wanted to be expressive, he possessed the most expressive face ever. He could show a 400 page Russian novel of expressions in 30 seconds. And when he didn’t want to be... his “blank face” was unmatched. He just would not give:

The ability to pull off a blank face at will is actually learned behavior. A learned mechanism of self-defense. Which is interesting.  The Beatles mythology says Paul grew up in a "happy, stable home." The pictures, especially the pics in his Liverpool youth, don't match with that. And he didn't learn how to blank out his face for no reason.

[dballzposting]

I know Future Trunks so well. He is all of us

You know when you have to do something but you procrastinate it for some reason and that makes it so much worse...? Sometimes you dont even know why you're procrastinating. You know that accompanying feeling of muted fear and grief...?

Right. Well I just know that there are some tasks that Future Trunks evidently abhors doing for unknown reasons. Like hes a mature guy and he knows how high the stakes are always and he appreciates the little things in life endlessly but when he has to do certain chores I know that's wordlessly hard on him..

Things he can do: Fetch fresh water. Search for survivors. Train endlessly. Boil water. Hunt. Cut up vegetables for soup. Do the laundry. Kill

Possible things that he cannot do (a list of examples because we do not know him that well): Clean the bathroom because he gets claustrophobic and overwhelmed. Vacuum the house/whatver becasue it always takes longer than he was expecting. Drink yucky water. Wear certain materials when the weather is a certain way. Carry a bunch of tiny shit at once becasue then he starts dropping them and then he gets mad (like apples or something). Etc. Anything like that.

You know how when dogs are stressed or upset they throw their heads back and start yowling/caterwauling/wailing/crying/whining/howling. You ever done that when you were stressed out becasue of the scary amount of procrastinated tasks that you're putting off facing...? Yeah. Yeah guess who does that. That's right. Jesse McCartney himself

Future Trunks has a lot of importsnt shit going on and he knows how to persevere but also if he has to do something tedious and that sucks then he just might have a hard time of it. He can do it and he will and you'll never know his struggle becasue he keeps an even face but occasionally he'll allow himself a few minutes to stand there and howl like a stabbed dog.

Maybe when he was a young kid there was some concern and maybe when Gohan was around hed be like "Heeeey what's wrong buddy? :(" but that was a long time ago and Future Trunks is 17 now and he knows what hes doing. He knows he's being weird

Bulma just hears caterwauling echoing through the halls sometimes. And if she walks by she might see Trunks standing in a room kind of off-center and with his back to the door perfectly still and stoic with great posture and hes fully dressed and wearing his sword like he has somewhere to be (he does). And then he just throws his head back and cries like a dog in a bathtub.

And Bulma is like "Trunks!" and he stops immediately and turns around and his face is completely blank but his eyes are definitely present and hes completely listening.

And shes like "Stop it." and hes like "Okay."

He doesnt apologize becasue that would imply hes embarrassed and that would imply that hes doing something he thinks he shouldn't be .. He knows it's weird when he fills the hallways with mournful wailing. But he knows what hes doing. He has conviction. He does it anyway

He'll still do the abhorred task but hes gonna do that first for a while. Again he wears no expression of grief or desolation, and this is not a vivid or intense pain, but it's enough to instigate such behavior.

And hes fully 17 now and maybe hes too old for this shit but Bulma isnt mad or annoyed or even confused because she appreciates these moments when they can just exist. And shes busy you know shes got shit to do and so she tells him to stop becasue it was a distraction and then shes gonna get back to it. They don't talk about it becasue they dont need to. They both know that he was howling like a cursed animal because he was faced with a mundane task that he found overwhelming. They both know hes being weird

[toovirgins]

March, 1964

Summary: John and Paul (but mostly John) find studying their lines for A Hard Day's Night a drag. John finds other (PG?) ways to pass the time.

The air was still inside the cozy dressing room. A faint scent of cigarette smoke clung to the thick atmosphere, but not enough to ring unpleasant. John gazed at the cigarette as it dangled loosely from his fingers, and deciding against taking another drag, put it out in the ashtray beside him. He tugged at the neck of his black sweater—despite the chill of the winter air persisting outside the window, the room was quite warm. Without much thought, John lazily traced a finger along the window sill, feeling chills spread up his arm at the temperature shock.

It really looked more like an upscale office than a dressing room. Sure, there were four distinct mirrors and hairdresser chairs, as well as a rod near the doorway with an array of suits, sweaters, and trousers for the boys to rotate in and out of. But the room itself was decorated quite elegantly. A soft glow from the floor lamp mingled with the diminishing brightness of outside to coat the room in a honey-like aura. Deep red curtains framed the enormous window, grazing the velvety paisley-patterned rug that covered most area of the room. The rest of the floor was a deep hardwood, without the slightest trace of dust—an unfamiliar concept, John mused. This was much nicer than what they were used to. Immediately upon entering, he had thrown himself onto a long, floral-patterned couch by the window. Paul knew he fancied observing nature while they studied.

Paul was seated a few feet away from him, his long legs draped over the armrest as he slouched sideways over the enormous armchair. His body was facing John’s, and he could see his eyebrows knitting together in concentration as he studied his script. His lips moved wordlessly, repeating his lines to himself without speaking at all. He reached up mindlessly and tousled his hair, and John watched as the dark locks fell directly back into place. They had been sitting like this for over an hour now, and John was beginning to feel restless. He had turned his gaze to his friend once he figured he could not possibly watch the nothing going on outside the window for a second longer. Going over his script one more time was always an option, but the thought simply did not interest him. Despite being constantly begged not to do so, John figured he could improvise some lines if they fell blank on his mind. He had a quick wit, and knew that some of his lines would come off better (read: more authentic) than the portrait that the writers had painted of him. He didn’t know how Paul could concentrate for so long, especially seeing as the man had relatively few lines in the upcoming scene.

Almost as if hearing his name appear in John’s thoughts, Paul’s eyes jumped up to meet John’s. He swung his legs over the arm of the chair until he was sitting in an upright (albeit, poorly postured) position and set his script down on the quaint table between them. John pulled the ashtray a bit closer to himself, fearing the disaster that would ensue if he and Paul accidentally burned down the dressing room. They had had their fair share of slightly arsonist run-ins in their youth, and John was too tired to deal with the legal ramifications of an incident like that again.

Paul sighed loudly, bringing John back to present. He hoped this was a sign of his friend’s boredom and restlessness, so he could stop pretending like he was studying his own script. The younger man leaned forward and put his head in his hands, letting out a strained groan as he rubbed his eyes.

“I don’t think I can take any more of this studying, mate,” Paul muttered. “I close my eyes and all I see is ‘No, actually, we’re just good friends’. Why do I have to say that, like, a dozen times? It’s only hardly clever.”

“Quite the realistic portrait, then,” John replied lazily, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips when Paul shot him an irritated glance. “I’m bored. Let’s do something.”

Paul checked his wristwatch. “When do you think they’ll be back? I thought Ringo was just going to wander about the town. How long could that filming possibly take? It’s not even scripted. Plus, he’s got that massive hangover. I figured they’d be back around by now.”

John shrugged. George had gone along with Ringo to provide some moral support for the dreaded scene (every scene was dreaded for Ringo today, as Paul was right—he was sporting a massive hangover), leaving Paul and John behind to study for their next appearance. For Paul, it was out of necessity; the poor lad struggled with keeping up with his lines, a fact that made him irritated and anxious. Paul typically wasn’t poor at things. For John, the desertion was more punishment for disappearing on set the day before to explore the city a bit. He didn’t mind, though. It could be worse; Paul could have left him as well. At least he had some company.

“We could go to the pub we passed yesterday,” John observed. “I could use a quick drink. Or two.”

Paul frowned, but John could see him shake his head in slight amusement at his friend’s remarks. “No, we won’t be doing that. Could you imagine how much trouble you’d be in with Brian if you disappeared again? To drink, no less? Sometimes I don’t know what goes on in your daft mind.”

John chuckled at that. He quite enjoyed teasing his friend, pushing forth this Teddy-boy persona that he sported when they first met seven years prior. Though he had no intention of actually going to get drunk in the middle of a work day, he knew that the boy wouldn’t tell the difference. He was aware that his behavior gave Paul a bit of a superiority complex, the feeling of being “the good one”, and the thought of that amused him. The public had yet to see how mischievous Paul McCartney actually was, his puppy dog eyes betraying him at every turn.

Of course, John was one of the few people that saw past Paul’s angelic front. The times they’d shared together had proved that even Brian and George Martin were fooled, as John often fell victim to blame for things that Paul had done. He didn’t quite mind the dynamic, though. He was hardly in real trouble, and it felt nice to have a part of Paul that the others didn’t. He was so hard to read at first, so hard to get close to. The intimacy was welcome to John, in a comforting, familial way.

“What shall we do then?” John mused. He huffed as he struggled to pull himself into an upright position, his joints popping at the sudden movement after being a puddle of nothing for so long. “Go for a smoke? Go for a stroll? Go fetch a bird?” He winked at the last suggestion as heat rose into Paul’s cheeks. Last night, John had also unintentionally taken the blame for a girl that Paul had snuck into the dressing room. Paul had been mortified and profusely thanked him, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t have a little fun with the knowledge.

“Actually,” Paul replied, rubbing his temples, “I’m quite exhausted. Might have a go at a nap.”

“Paul,” John whined, feigned desperation in his voice, “You can’t. I’m so bored. If you leave, I’ll have nothing.”

“Oh, all right,” the boy sighed. “Then you think of something to do. My mind is strained. And,” he jumped, as John opened his mouth to say something, “we’re not going out. I feel like I’m responsible for you right now. Don’t make me put you in time out.” Paul slouched back as the chair engulfed his figure and closed his eyes, humming softly to himself as he let fatigue overtake him.

John’s stomach flipped Paul’s words, though he almost cocked an eyebrow at the absurdity of the feeling. He quickly shook it off, feeling sure it was nothing more than the delight of knowing he could pester Paul endlessly, now that he was aware how Paul felt of the situation. If he was John’s babysitter, then John would act… well, like a child.

John stretched his legs just far enough as to where he could kick the other man’s foot. Paul half-lidded eyes looked up at him with a slightly annoyed expression, but he was met only with the amusement that twinkled in John’s. This seemed to irritate him further, not feeling at all in the mood for physical banter. So John kicked him again.

Paul’s eyes flew open. “Christ, lad, would you knock it off? I’m not in the mood. If you won’t let me leave, at least let me rest here.”

“But I’m bored,” John whined again. “I want to do something.”

“Look over your script,” Paul muttered as he turned his back on him, shifting to curl up into the armchair. “I don’t want to have to deal with you going on about fish and finger pies again next take. I have enough to worry about with my own lines.”

“You don’t own me, Paul,” John shot back. “You’re not in charge.”

“I bloody might as well be,” came the muffled voice that now felt far away.

John fell back on the couch himself, defeated. He gazed out the window again, eyes following an adorable little bird that hopped from tree limb to tree limb. He felt for that bird, or rather, he felt the need to be that bird, happily hopping on without a care in the world. It was so simple and innocent. He wanted to reach his hand through the glass and stroke the little bird, with its enchantingly dark feathers. To John, it looked like midnight, when the sky was still and the world was quiet and there was nothing but yourself and the atmosphere, high above you. Was it a blackbird? A crow, maybe? Its tiny black eyes were empty, devoid of emotion, but not threatening or eerie. Just… there. Being. Existing. It lived only to live, not to please, or love, or conquer. Oh, to be the little bird.

John continued to marvel at it for a few more moments before it fluttered out of sight. He was left with nothing again, his mind grasping at something else to attend to. The script fell out of his hands onto the floor with a thick thud, making Paul twitch in his barely-there state of consciousness.

Paul! A wonderful thing to capture his attention. John nudged his foot against the chair, hoping to shift it just slightly. When that didn’t work, he pushed a bit harder, sending a croaking sound through the room as the chair leg slipped off the rug and onto the hardwood.

“Piss off, Lennon,” Paul growled, his voice thick with the beginnings of sleep. But John couldn’t let him drift asleep. He would be so dreadfully bored.

John got to his knees on the couch, facing Paul’s chair. He gently pushed the stand with the ashtray and Paul’s script out of the way, and leaned forward, interlacing his fingers on the arm of the couch and resting his chin atop them. He could see Paul’s side rising and falling rhythmically, the stiff fabric of his dress shirt crinkling with every inhale. He hadn’t changed out from earlier, and was still wearing the pressed white button down, black tie, and black trousers. The only thing he had removed was his suit jacket, which lay draped across the back of the chair. John assumed Paul had noticed the warm thickness of the air in the room as well.

Paul’s side stared back at him, open and inviting. He knew exactly what to do, to piss Paul off to the perfect degree while also keeping up the good spirits. He removed a hand from under his chin and stretched ever so slightly before jamming two fingers—hard—into Paul’s soft side.

Paul yelped in surprise and jerked awake and alert, trying to comprehend what had just happened. John watched him smugly as his brow furrowed in confusion, then annoyance. “For fuck’s sake, John, is it so hard to keep your hands to yourself? You’re a child.”

John said nothing, just watched in anticipation as Paul turned away again, muttering something under his breath. He was cranky now, and John wanted to push his limits. He had nothing better to do, anyway. He tentatively reached back over and, in one swift movement, pinched Paul’s side again and retreated into the far side of the couch.

Paul swung blindly, nearly missing contact with John’s extended forearm as he jumped back. John suppressed a giddy grin, knowing that he had succeeded in his mission. Paul was now wide awake and visibly frustrated, taking a moment to rub his tender side while muttering a string of unflattering curses.

“You wanker,” he shot at John, his eyes burning as he massaged his sore spot. Paul knew that John knew that’s where his weak spot was, his ticklish spot. He was only lucky that John had poked and pinched instead of lightly grazing and prodding. They shared a look, both of them well aware of that fact. John couldn’t help but cock a knowing eyebrow at him, as if to say, I could if I wanted to.

Suddenly, Paul’s eyes darkened. John’s breath caught in his throat as he watched a mischievous glint overtake Paul’s gaze. He watched Paul’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, running his tongue between his lips in anticipation. John wasn’t sure what the transformation was, but it couldn’t be good. He felt in a moment that he had lost control of the situation. He opened his mouth to speak, willing himself to come up with something spectacularly witty, until—

Paul had lurched on top of him in a matter of seconds, digging his fingers into John’s sides. John initially gasped as ticklish tremors ran through his body, the sounds of pure, unfiltered laughter soon filling the air. John twisted under Paul’s iron grip as tears began to spring to his eyes from the hysteria, gasping for breath and unable to keep himself from breaking into a fit of giggles every few seconds. He weakly attempted to reach up and grasp at Paul’s weak spots, trying to give himself the edge again, but Paul caught his wrist with one hand, pinning the other down with his knee. “Uh uh uh,” he chastised, pushing John’s wrist into the couch and underneath his other knee. He was straddling him on the couch, his knees trapping John’s hands at his sides while Paul’s hands were free to mercilessly attack John’s sides, stomach, and neck.

“P-please,” he wheezed, as Paul chuckled lightheartedly above him. “Please stop, I- I can’t breathe—”

“You asked for this,” Paul retorted, not ceasing the torturous movements. His tone was light and amused, sounding as though he found himself greatly enamored with the visual of John writhing helplessly beneath him. “Next time, keep your bloody hands to yourself.”

“I will, I will,” John gasped, a tear rolling down his cheek. Slowly, Paul ceased his assault, and rocked back on his heels, letting John’s hands free. He watched as the man caught his breath beneath him, reaching up to wipe away a tear that had fallen in the hysteria. “That was not funny,” John asserted in a mock-serious tone, secretly hoping that Paul would go at it again.

The thought pulled a frown to his face as he contemplated what had just popped into his head. He was “secretly hoping Paul would do that again”? Why? Why did he feel the need to keep it a secret? Why had Paul’s devilish fingers made John’s skin feel so… electric, and tingly? And most importantly, why was he now acutely aware that the man was sitting on John’s lap?

Paul let out an airy laugh and raised himself up off the sofa. John breathed a sigh of relief, concerned over the thoughts that spilled into his head. What the fuck was going on? This was Paul. He enjoyed spending time with him, teasing him, messing with him, pissing him off and making him laugh. Paul, his bandmate. His best friend. His suddenly strangely entrancing best—

Shut up, John begged his mind. He didn’t want to follow himself down a rabbit hole of that sort.

Paul was making his way back to the armchair. He plopped into it, looking as though he was the one who had just been tickled to death. He looked at John with a grin of satisfaction and power, and John knew that the man was about to go for a nap again knowing that John wouldn’t mess with him in that way again.

He liked to prove Paul wrong.

As soon as Paul’s eyes fluttered closed once more, and his breathing became steadier and deeper, John formulated another plan. One that, this time, he would surely be in control of. He watched Paul’s chest rise and fall for a few minutes, waiting for his eyelashes to stop twitching, willing the man to fall just enough asleep to where he would be slightly delirious upon a quick awakening. That way, he couldn’t catch John with surprise force as he executed the first step of his plan.

John waited the tiniest bit longer, until he was sure that his friend wasn’t just pretending, and went for it. In a quick movement, John jumped up and pulled at Paul’s wrists, thrusting him onto the floor forcefully but not painfully. The man blinked wildly as John held both his wrists over his head with one hand and began to aggressively tickle Paul’s exposed armpits. He jerked away from John’s touch, still in a faint haze about what was happening, before he began to come to his senses and bite back a cry of laughter. John knew that Paul was far more ticklish than he, and that the quick prodding and nudging wouldn’t drive him nearly as crazy as light, barely-there touches.

He began to cry out on the floor beside John, who was lying on his side, holding Paul’s hands with one arm and attacking him with the other. “Jesus, John, you bastard,” he wheezed, trying to force himself up but unable to do so. His wrists strained against John’s grip.

This struggle continued for a few more minutes, before John’s own stomach hurt from laughing so much. He released his friend and collapsed on the rug beside him, both of their laughter dying out softly as they caught their breath. A silence of about five minutes ensued, neither speaking but both acknowledging the comforting warmth of their shoulders pressed against one other.

After a long recovery, Paul tentatively lifted a leg and crossed it over, placing it in between John’s. Shooting his friend an inquisitive glance—not that this intertwining or personal touch was a strange posture for them, as they had had countless sleepovers in John’s far-too-tiny bed in his Mimi’s home growing up—John nudged Paul’s foot with his own to encourage him to speak what was on his mind.

“Thank you,” Paul said, the tint of laughter still coloring his voice.

“For what?” John replied noncommittedly. He kept his eyes on the ceiling, which was a rather putrid tile, almost like the ceilings in grade school—something that was jarring against the rather royal layout of the rest of the room. He trained his gaze on a particular patch of water damage shaped a bit like the bird he had watched earlier, through the window.

“I know you could have done worse in that little fight,” Paul mused. “I think I would have peed me self. Or died. Whichever came first.”

John hummed in response, now aware that the little leg movement was almost a thank you in and of itself. That simple search for physical contact, a gesture of appreciation, made John’s heart swell. He liked feeling appreciated. It was almost as if John was a girl, and Paul had reached down to interlace their fingers together and offer a quick squeeze, but John wasn’t a girl and instead Paul had thoughtlessly interlaced their legs. It was a nice feeling, one that spread warmth across John’s chest. As much as he wore Paul down, he was so thankful for him. It was a genuine admiration and appreciation (that he hoped was mutual), an experience that was rather foreign to him throughout life so far. He supposed much of that was brought on by himself—if he hadn’t been such a naughty child in school, if he’d been a bit better behaved for his parents, if he hadn’t been such a dick to the girlfriends he’d had. But with Paul, things were different. There were no expectations of being a son, a pupil, a lover. They could just be. Just like the bird.

John smiled to himself at the thought.

[ohblackdiamond]

performance (1970), mick jagger, identity, aging rockstars, and kiss

I finally finished watching Performance last night and really enjoyed how it explored identity/gender/sexuality. I sort of wished I’d watched it prior to writing, or at least prior to finishing, “little t&a,” even though the era is obviously radically different (Performance was completed in 1968, though it wasn’t in theaters until two years later, and is suffused with all the countercultural elements that by the late seventies were very much outdated). The core elements of questioning what comprises the self and how to define the self (by others’ perception? by one’s own? what causes someone to try to cling to an identity as it’s externally or internally torn apart? what causes someone to remake themselves?) are similar, and I love how Performance plays with gender.  Unfortunately, “little t&a” only really couches all that in a bunch of smut, whereas, well, Performance, while not classy, is, well, a whole lot better. Uh. A whole lot of harebrained analysis about the nature of the establishment and old rockstars, and some mild spoilers under the cut. I liked this so much, I broke out my shift key.

Turner (Mick Jagger’s character)’s fascination with Chas’ (James Fox) gangster lifestyle, his threadbare “performance” as a juggler, and just, generally, what Chas represents is really intriguing. Chas doesn’t look like the establishment when he comes into Turner’s drug hovel with his hastily-dyed hair and smashed face, but he adheres to aspects of it. The suits he wears to work-- even though his work is as a violent, money-collecting gangster. The stiffness and repression. Chas has those he answers to; Turner, ultimately, doesn’t. And yet I think Turner, so much as he mocks Chas, finds a certain appeal to him (beyond just sexual interest). The Memo from Turner scene (NSFW, disturbing content, might want to also take a look at the lyrics first, as they’re rather disturbing) illustrates that pretty effectively. Turner in the boss’ chair, making a wreckage of it, urging the men to strip and basically succumb to their desires-- he’s in control, and, for most of the scene, he’s wearing the costume of the establishment as he trounces it. 

In a meta sense, that part really stood out to me-- is this what Mick Jagger is now, or what he became, once the swinging sixties, Altamont, drug busts, heck, let’s be generous and stretch things out, even once Black and Blue gave way to Some Girls-- once all that was over? Is he the corporate head, sneering in his suit? Is he upending all that’s acceptable? Can one upend from the top down without becoming part of the establishment itself? Or is he basically married to the performance of what he used to, at least ostensibly, seem to stand for, while simultaneously ending up all the things he used to mock, seeking accolades, societal approval, respect, the “right” branding? (And why not extend this out; you can put any long-established rock artist’s name in the blank, from Gene Simmons to Paul Stanley to Paul McCartney to, yeah, Bruce Springsteen.) I’m conflating too many separate but related issues here, but I hope the point still somewhat comes across.

Moving right along. One of the things I liked the most about Performance is Turner’s characterization. Aging rockstars are, obviously, of great interest to me, and I write about them pretty often, but I’ve always characterized them with a lot more defeat and exhaustion and self-parody. With KISS in particular, it’s almost too easy to do-- it’s always the flash and the spectacle, the makeup, the magazine mythos-- all of which carries itself way too easily into very unflattering comparisons.

However, Turner, while a has-been, still has a fire and a very Byronic quality about him, even as he’s rambling some sardonic not-quite-nonsense and obviously high. His excesses are destroying him, sure. He’s tired of his own emptiness. But he’s still passionate and arresting; the vestiges of the glamorous rockstar aren’t gone, and his anger isn’t fully subsumed in bitterness. It’s a very different approach-- one that probably has a lot to do with Turner’s youth (Mick wasn’t even thirty at the time of filming), and it’s something I’d love to explore in a story sometime. 

I could say a lot more about the way Performance depicts gender and sexuality-- there’s a lot to chew on there-- but I’ll just finish this up with an uneasy recommendation of Performance if you don’t mind a fairly hard-to-follow plot, assorted weirdness, cruelty, smut, and rampant drug abuse mixed in with all the other trappings I’ve mentioned. If you’re not quite up for that but do enjoy a more linear, lighter exploration of identity, this in terms of an assassin just trying to do his job, try The Day of the Jackal (original seventies’ version), which stars James Fox’s brother, Edward Fox. 

[does-it-need-saying]

For the person who made life so much better this year, and who I’d most definitely be a complete mess without. I hope this helps close out your 2020 on a good note, and that you have the happiest and best and most amazing 2021 possible! This one’s for you @loupettes ❤️🐀

Sick Week

“So how long will you be staying here? A day? Two?”

“And by you, you mean we, right?”

The Doctor and Rose were making their way over to Jackie’s flat. After a rather shrill call about not getting a visit in the last month, Rose had been particularly keen on making an impromptu visit home. Although the Doctor still hadn’t exactly seemed to accept it.

“Well she’s your mum, Rose. You don’t see me dragging you along to every single one of my affairs, do you?” Rose stopped them in their tracks and gave the Doctor that unmistakable ‘are you being serious right now?’ face. The Doctor sighed, very much in defeat, and tugged on Rose to continue on. “Fiiiiine, we. I meant we. How long will we be staying here? A few hours?”

Rose rolled her eyes now, choosing to ignore that last remark. “A week.” And feeling a ‘but Rose!’ rising in his throat, she quickly continued on. “I promised her a week so we’re gonna be here a week. And if you make a fuss about it, I’ll up it to two weeks. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he gave in.

Of course Rose didn’t really care whether he was a willing participant or not, but she was quite happy to see she still had him wrapped nicely around her finger. So with an extra hop in her stop, she smiled at him, looped her arm through his, and moved to give him a quick peck on the cheek. But upon feeling a fiery heat on his skin, she recoiled back. “Blimey, what’s wrong with you?”

“Oi! I give into your exact demand and this is the treatment I get? You are a bully, Rose Tyler! Nothing but a mean and hurtful tyrant!”

Rose waited a minute to see if he had any more dramatics left in him. “You done then?”

“Mmmmmm… I believe so.”

Rose chuckled. “Good then, you big baby. All I meant is you’re feelin’ awfully hot there, practically burned me to the touch.”

“Am I?” the Doctor asked, intrigued enough to touch all around his face.

“You mean you don’t feel that?”

“Ahh, that’s just my fancy shmancy temperature regulation kicking in. How else do you think I could survive running around in this giant coat all day? Or did you think I was just that impressive?” he asked with a sly smile just as they arrived outside the estate.

“Okay, but that still doesn’t answer my question. Are ya sick or something? ‘Cause if you’re about to be passed out in bed again I’d like a little heads up. In case another dangerous alien invasion comes up, ya know?”

“If I tell you I’m sick does that get me out of staying with your mother all week?” Rose just crossed her arms at him. “Fine, fine,” he quickly conceded as he opened the door for her and followed her up the stairs. “I’m fine, though. Just something that happens occasionally due to the whole aforementioned temperature regulation thingy. Always good to know when it happens, though, so feel free to let me know when you think I’m ‘hot’ anytime.”  

Rose could practically hear the grin spreading on his face, and she couldn’t help but smile herself. Though she was thankful she happened to be in front of him so he couldn’t see how extremely red her cheeks were now. “In your dreams,” she teased.

Following a few more flights of stairs and a couple pushes forward from Rose, the pair finally found themselves outside the flat.

“Any last words then?” Rose asked cheekily as she pushed her key into the lock.

“God help me,” the Doctor pretended to pray.

Rose just snorted back at him as she turned the key, but as soon as the door opened her attention shifted. “Mum!!! We’re here!”

“Well it’s about time!” They could hear Jackie shout from the kitchen and went to join her.

“Sorry Mum,” Rose tried to appease her with a hug, but it wasn’t quite working out.

“’We’ll be back in a week, promise. Just a week’,” Jackie tried imitating her daughter. “A whole bloody month it’s been! A bloody month without so much as a proper call to let me know how you are?! For all I knew you could’ve been dead! Or ‘ad joined some alien cult!!”

Rose just stood there, choosing to take all of her mother’s anger now rather than wait for it to inevitably get worse later on. Meanwhile, the Doctor stuck himself as silently as he could to the doorframe. He was certainly entertained watching someone else getting the Jackie-Tyler-Talking-To for once, evident by the smirk plastered on his face. Or at least he was quite enjoying it until an inadvertent snort escaped his lips and Jackie’s wrath was immediately drawn to him.

“And what do you think you’re laughin’ about, then? You’d think after that year you stole my daughter for, you’d be a bit more careful about keeping up with the visits! But no, you’re just as much an idiot now as you were then!”

The Doctor stood up straight now. “Jackie-“

“Mum,” Rose quickly interrupted him. “We’re sorry, alright. I’m sorry. Just got the dates a bit messed up in my head, but I promise it won’t happen again. Okay?”

Jackie took a hard look at Rose, then at the Doctor, then back at Rose. She let out her breath, and any anger she had left with it. “Fine, then. But for letting you get off easy, I want another day with you here. Patricia’s havin’ a party Sunday afternoon and I never get to show you off anymore, so I reckon you owe me that.”

“Yes, Mum, of course,” Rose promptly agreed, taking Jackie back into a now fully loving hug, while daring the Doctor to argue with a slightly murderous glare. Needless to say, he chose not to fight it.

“Well, then, now that that’s sorted,” Jackie said, taking a step back. “Anyone up for a cuppa?”

---

“You’re puttin’ me on! There’s no way you just happened to run into the Paul McCartney on Abbey Road!”

“All the things we’ve told her about, and that’s the one thing she won’t believe?” Rose sighed to the Doctor.

“It does sound a bit unbelievable, I suppose,” he defended.

“Not you too!” Rose laughed. “She’s bad enough, but you were actually there!”

Unlike the first few minutes of their reunion, the rest of the day was going by quite well. They had spent hours catching up, laughing, and just having the best time. Even the Doctor had quickly dropped his stubborn façade.

“I’m not saying it didn’t happen,” the Doctor continued on. “I’m just saying, if someone had told me ‘oh you know what we did today? We met one of those famous Beatles on the same road of their famous album cover all by accident’- without any of the context, mind you- I might not believe it either.”

“Ha!” Jackie gloated. “I knew there was a reason I still put up with him!”

“Mmhmm,” Rose hummed, deciding to take the loss. She slumped back into her seat as she accepted a sly smile from the Doctor before he took a bite of his chocolate biscuit.

“Mmm, this is absolutely delicious! Did you make these, Jackie?” he asked with his mouth full.

“No, they were a gift from Susan. She just opened a bakery down the road, she did. Great little place.”

“Well, give her my compliments!” The Doctor reached for another biscuit as he was still finishing off the first one.

Jackie sighed at him, noticing all the chocolate smudges around his lips. “Ya’ know there’d be more for you to enjoy if you ate properly.” She licked the tip of her thumb and pressed it to the mess on his face, only to be surprised with his burning hot skin. “Oh sweetheart!” she practically jumped on him, taking him in her arms. “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feelin’ well, love?! You’re burnin’ up!”

“No, Mum—” Rose tried.

“Jackie, it’s not—” the Doctor tried.

“Oh don’t you go trying to make up excuses. I don’t care what planet you’re from, a fever is never normal!”

“No, actually it’s perfectly normal. You see—” the Doctor tried again, but either Jackie chose to ignore him or wasn’t listening in the first place.

“Now listen, here,” she went on, getting up off the couch while pushing him down. “You’re gonna lie down right here for now and I’m gonna go make you some more tea. I’ve got a special recipe just for these things, works wonders! And when you finish with it, we’ll take you to Rose’s room to get a good night’s sleep. Rose, you can sleep on the couch this stay—”

“But Mum, he’s not even--!”

“Don’t you argue with me, little miss! You may be out travellin’ all of time and space, but I’m still your mum and you’ll do as I say.”

Once again, Rose slumped back in defeat. “Yes, Mum.”

“Good. Now, I still don’t know much about alien sickness, not exactly like there’re any books on it at the shops. But ever since that last time on Christmas Day, I’ve been stockin’ up, just in case ya’ know. So anything you might need, I’ve got it all. Vitamins, acetaminophen, fish oil, sugary treats, salty snacks…”

Jackie continued rambling on her admittedly quite impressive list as she made her way to the kitchen. Rose and the Doctor were left on their own, just staring at each other trying to figure out what they’re next move would be. But they were both coming up blank. They could take on Daleks, Cyberman, and even Satan himself any day, but a determined Jackie? Their only option was to let things take their course naturally. Of course, the Doctor seemed to be a bit happier with the situation than Rose. A few days of being fully taken care of for once? Maybe this stay wouldn’t be as bad as he feared it would be…

“…and of course loads and loads of tea, since that’s what seemed to do the trick last time,” Jackie finally concluded as she returned, setting down the fresh cup of tea. “Right then, I’m gonna go get some extra blankets for you. And Rose, why don’t you go tidy up your room a bit, yeah? It’s always a mess in there, make sure it’s all nice and comfy for when he’s ready to head in.”

“Yes, Mum,” Rose grumbled, getting up. And with all her willpower she refrained herself from giving a nice slap to the Doctor, who was almost begging for one as he waggled his eyebrows at her.

---

Over the next few days, the Tyler residence had slowly turned into more of a resort for the Doctor. Jackie and (begrudgingly) Rose started waiting on him hand and foot, tending to his every need. And the Doctor was certainly milking the experience for all it was worth. Though the first few days he wasn’t exactly sure how to deal with this sort of attention, it didn’t take long for him to learn exactly how to be, what Rose continuously and emphatically was calling him, a man baby.

Admittedly, Rose had become a bit jealous of all the attention the Doctor was getting. Sure, it wasn’t like Jackie had shoved her aside whenever she got sick as a kid. But she genuinely couldn’t remember ever having been so pampered- and that was including her bout of appendicitis in the fourth grade. Still, she did rather enjoy seeing her mum and the Doctor getting on so well. When Jackie wasn’t ‘nursing him back to health’, Rose would catch them gabbing on about some reality show they started watching together, or laughing over the latest estate gossip. She always did suspect they cared more for each other than they let on, and it was nice to finally know it wasn’t just in her head. Even if it did mean having to take care of that perfectly fine twat of a Time Lord.

Finally, though, on the fourth day, the Doctor’s ‘fever’ broke and the magic spell he seemed to have over Jackie wore off. As quickly as she had dove into action, she jumped right back out. The days of automatically full cups of tea, bed side delivery of whatever either of his hearts desired, and a completely nurturing Jackie were gone. And though he wasn’t exactly proud to admit it, it did take longer than he would have thought to return to self-sufficient life.  

Not that that put any damper on the rest of their stay, though. The three of them immediately went back to having the same good time which was promptly interrupted that first day. Between movie marathons, wandering the town, a few competitive games of Monopoly (which Jackie somehow always won), and a load of chatting, there wasn’t a dull moment to be found. And when Sunday came along, it was actually the Doctor who seemed most excited to head off to Patricia’s party. His enthusiasm even seemed to rub off on Rose, who had grown tired of these estate get-togethers before she had even learned how to read. But it was nearly impossible not to have a good – no, great- time watching the Doctor fail miserably at limbo and pulling her to dance what seemed like every five minutes.

But eventually the party came to an end and Monday rolled around, bringing with it a sort of gloominess in anticipation of the Doctor and Rose’s departure. Where they all would have been sharing smiles and laughs just a few days ago, there was an eerie and awkward silence instead. Until finally the inevitable had come and they were all crowded together in the flat’s tiny hallway by the front door.

“Now, don’t go forgettin’ about me again, got it? I expect to see you two back here next week. And you better not be lookin’ 20 years older by then, either!”

“We’ll be back next week, Mum. And I promise I won’t have aged more than five years. Tops,” Rose tried joking.

Jackie gave a forced laugh, hugged her daughter, then turned to the Doctor. “And you- you better keep takin’ good care o’ her… and yourself.”

The Doctor only nodded in agreement, a small smile growing on his face. A week ago he probably wouldn’t have admitted to being touched by Jackie’s well wishes for him, but now he felt quite grateful for it. So when Jackie moved to give him a hug him, for once he embraced her back just as warmly.

“Well then…” Jackie started, taking a step back from them. But she couldn’t bring herself to actually say goodbye. And apparently neither Rose nor the Doctor could either as they stood in their own silence for some time.

“Ya know…” It was the Doctor who spoke up this time, scratching the back of his head. “I think we’ve got some more time on our hands. You were talkin’ about wanting to catch that special tonight on—err… the Arctic, weren’t you, Rose?”

“Mmm, yeah,” Rose caught on and quickly agreed. “I was just sayin’ earlier- remember?- how it’d be a real shame to miss it.”

“And I- ya know… if I head off alone I’m no good at getting out of trouble all by myself… So why don’t we both stick around an extra day?”

“Really?” Jackie couldn’t help but beam at the suggestion. Then catching herself, “I mean… if you want to… s’ppose I could reschedule dinner with Diane and Linda for another night- if it’s what you two would like.”

“That’d be great, Mum,” Rose smiled.

“Oh and I was thinkin’,” Jackie went on without missing a beat, already heading back to the living room. “It’d be awful fun to go down and take a ride at the London Eye! Haven’t done that since you were real little. Oh and then after that we could head over to Susan’s bakery and…”

The Doctor was just about to follow when he felt Rose tugging on his coat and turned to her.

“Thank you,” she smiled at him, and stood up on her tip-toes to give him a small kiss on his cheek.

“Oh don’t thank me, I’m just trying to trick you into owing me a favor for once!” he winked at her, then whisked himself off to the living room as well shouting after Jackie. “Oh! I forgot to tell you last night! You’ll never guess what Sid told me about him and Matthew!”

Rose took a moment longer for herself in the hallway as she listened to the two of them gabbing away. She’d had quite a lot of amazing moments over the past couple years, yet somehow this one week had blown them all away and she wanted to ingrain the pure feeling of happiness from it into her mind. Then, with a last little chuckle to herself wondering if she’d ever actually be able to pull the Doctor back to the TARDIS, she went to join them.