Work Text:
-"Mr Lennon!"
John turned around, barely in time. One bullet, then a second, a third and a final one struck him with a loud bang.
As the echo of the shots faded, the silence became deafening. Everyone's state of shock dissipated. And when John collapsed to the ground, he did not hear Yoko scream.
♤♡◇♧♤♡◇♧♤♡◇♧♤♡◇♧
He woke up a moment later, lying on his back, straight. He didn't dare move, keeping his eyes closed, afraid of finding himself lying in a pool of his own blood. But the silence was too peaceful.
He can't even hear the sound of passing car engines, or the echo of his wife's frantic footsteps, or her cries. Nothing.
He opens his eyes but closes them again immediately, blinded by the sudden light surrounding him. Gradually, he can finally hear, but it's nothing like the New York he knows. Birds, the wind... It's gentle, welcoming. Is this death?
He opens his eyes for the second time. He can see; his glasses haven't disappeared. Above him, a cloudless blue sky invites him to get up. He puts a hand on the ground to help himself up. Grass, soft and green. Heaven, surely.
Once on his feet, he stands still, lost in thought. It's over for him then. A fan who was a little too crazy, a little too jealous. What a crazy idea to be where anyone could shoot him! The Americans had hated him since 1966, what did he expect?
He starts walking towards what looks like a bench in the distance. A bench in the middle of a meadow, with nothing else around it.
The closer John gets, the more he has the strange feeling that someone's sitting on that same bench. Lost in thought, he thinks back to George's superstitions. That figure is waiting for him, he's sure of it.
When he's a few metres away, he observes it. This person has white hair, in a sort of slightly faded mullet. They're dressed in a nice white shirt, and nothing else. John stops a little longer, something inside him screaming at him to sit down.
He does so, without looking at the person next to him. He observes the orange shadows of an earthly sunset in front of him. They're reflected on the signet ring of the person next to him. He doesn't dare speak, but he doesn't need to. The person, the man, begins.
-"Just in time for tea..."
It's a slightly breathless voice, a voice that has spoken too much, sung too much. The voice of an old person who has lived a thousand lives, each one crazier than the last. But strangely, it sends a spark through John that he didn't think he could feel. He turns his head to look at his companion.
-"Good heavens, Paul, is that you?!"
The man beside him gives a tired smile. He nods gently, without adding anything. He continues to watch the golden clouds in front of him.
-"Where are we?"
The old man turns his face towards him and smiles. He shrugs and raises an arm to show him everything around them.
-"I don't know, to be honest. I just know that it's peaceful here."
-"Are we dead? Both of us?"
A moment of uncertainty settles in. Paul, of course it’s Paul, slowly stands up. He sighs and walks towards the clouds, an invisible edge. John doesn’t move but watches him. The man in front of him was once full of life and energy.
-"Yes, we're dead. I learned a lot before you arrived on this bench."
-"We didn't die at the same time. You look like a wrinkled old apple."
Paul snorts but keeps his back turned to his companion. John finally gets up, as if he has to beg this old guru to teach him how the world works.
-"Time doesn't exist here. We all meet up again if we want to. It's complicated, John. But you've always been here, held back, while you were living down there. Our souls hadn't met here yet."
-"So that's why I'm 40 and you're twice my age?"
Paul places a delicate, fragile hand on his shoulder, protruding from years of dieting. John smiles a little, as if his jokes were dissipating.
-"I wanted to see you again like this, but I told you, time doesn't exist here."
John blinks, then discovers the man beside him has grown younger. Standing before him is the 15-year-old Paul he met in that church. A guitar on his back and a slightly oversized checked shirt. That old Elvis-style quiff. His big doe eyes.
He barely thinks about it, but suddenly he finds himself changed. He has become the 17-year-old teddy boy again, the cheeky, irritating little bastard, a teenager too eager to reach for the sky.
-"Oh shit, this is awesome. Fuck, Paul, you're a virgin again!"
They burst out laughing. They quietly walk away from the bench, strolling on the soft white ground of the place called Heaven.
-"So, if you're here, where are the others?"
-"George and Ringo are with Bob, you know, like before. They don't know you're here yet. We'll go get them later."
As they walk, they don't meet anyone. The absence of noise makes John almost nervous. He's not used to the serenity yet; he misses the sounds of the city. The sounds of life.
Paul takes his hand, as if by old reflex, to reassure him. He has always been able to read and understand him.
-"Don't worry, it's just the entrance hall that's horribly quiet. After that, we have concerts every night!"
They laugh, and John thinks to himself that death isn't so bad after all. In any case, it's better than thinking about it.