A/N: Enjoy more John and Paul cuteness and a little bit of non-fluff.

Disclaimer: (I habitually forget to do these. Bleh.) I don't own the Beatles, nor was the relationship a reality. This is just something that lives in my imagination and I let it out periodically.

John's POV

We were on the plane to America for the first time ever and as cool as it was, it was also a little terrifying. Only George had been there before because he'd visited his sister, but he hadn't had to face ginormous screaming masses. Since it was only us where we were sitting, I grabbed Paul's hand and held it tightly. He looked at me in amusement.

"You're not scared, are you?" he asked, rubbing his thumb against the back of my hand. I shot him a look out of the corner of my eye.

"No, 'course I'm not bloody scared!" I retorted. This was an out and out lie; I detested flying. The thought of being so high in the air protected by hardly anything was extremely unnerving to me. Now it was Paul's turn to give me a look and I once again silently bemoaned the fact that he could read me like a book. "Macca, you're burning a hole in me head. Cut it out, will you?" I teased, waving a hand in front of his face.

"You're not fooling me, Johnny boy," he said quietly. "I already know you're scared stiff of flying, so is George. It's kind of obvious when you both turn deathly white as soon as you set foot in an airplane. It's okay." He nuzzled his face into my neck, eyelashes leaving feather-light butterfly kisses when he blinked his sleepy hazel eyes.

"Doesn't count," I mumbled, wincing a bit as we hit a spot of turbulence. "Geo's sick, he looked like a ghost before we even got near the plane." I rested my cheek in Paul's hair, shutting my eyes and inhaling the intoxicating smell of his cologne.

"Point taken." I almost hear Paul's eyes roll in their sockets.

Eventually, he fell asleep on my shoulder. I settled back in my seat, far too wired to sleep. It probably would have been a good idea though. I hadn't been sleeping much because there was one thought that kept plaguing my mind. It would pop up at the most unrelated of times, distracting me and ruling supreme over my thoughts.

I wanted to spend the rest of my life with the man sleeping next to me, I knew that much. I wanted him to be the first thing I saw in the morning, the person I spent every waking moment with, and the person I kissed goodnight. James Paul McCartney was absolutely the only person I could see myself with. I could be completely myself around him, no reservations, without fear he would laugh or be scared away.

Unfortunately, there was just a slight hitch in my otherwise seemingly unblemished wishes. No priest would ever marry us and would likely call the police if we asked them to perform a service like that. Wouldn't that be a headline: "Lennon and McCartney Arrested Looking to Get Married." If that wouldn't kiss our careers goodbye and tell them not to let the door smack their arses on the way out, I didn't know what would. I mentally groaned, pressing a protective kiss to the top of Paul's head. Why was this so difficult?

"John, you okay?" Ringo leaned across the isle to talk to me. George was fast asleep against the window, his mouth slightly slack.

"Yeah, just thinking I guess," I replied, squeezing Paul's hand lightly. His fingers subconsciously twitched around mine, making my heart skip a couple beats. "How's George doing?"

The drummer shrugged. "I think the sleep'll help him a little, but he didn't sound very well when we got on the plane and he's definitely still got fever."

I winced, shaking my head. "Poor bugger. He gets sick so much."

Ringo nodded, twisting the rings on his fingers. I stared at the ring finger on my own left hand, envisioning a ring on it. If I stared at it hard enough, I could almost feel a band of metal resting there gently.

But what good would a ring be? When asked about it it wasn't as though I could say, "Yeah, I'm married to one of my bandmates and we're very happy. Thanks for asking and if you don't like it, that's your problem." Granted, I would have liked to say that, but I had a feeling the general public wouldn't appreciate it very much if I did. And at the moment I wanted not to care fuck-all about the 'general public'.

I decided to forget about it for the time being and snuggled up to Paul, closing my eyes. The next thing I knew, we were being shaken awake. I managed a succinct, "Whatthefuckdoyouwant?"

"Cute though this is," Ringo's voice floated through my ears. "The plane landed and the fans'll be crawling on the wings if we don't get out." I groaned, reluctantly tearing myself away from Paul and standing up. My back cracked as I stretched, rubbing the sleep grit from my bleary eyes. Next to me, Paul was doing the same thing, nose wrinkling up as he yawned. If he'd let me—which he wouldn't—I'd probably make a video of his various adorable quirks. Scrunching his nose up when he yawned, bugging his eyes out if he was trying to be funny, habitually scratching his face with his middle finger, I'm sure I could think of hundreds more.

"Yeah, yeah, sod off you cheeky git," I waved him away. "We're coming."

"In public? You naughty boys," George cracked raspily, swaying a little with his carry-on luggage in hand. Just like any relationship any of us had, good natured sex jokes abounded.

Paul's eyes only popped about three feet out of his head. "Shut up and save your voice," he commanded, bright pink in the face. I felt my own ears and neck burn. George merely chuckled and made his way to the front of the plane. The poor kid was clearly not feeling well at all. Unfortunately, it seems like none of us are ever too sick to make an off-color joke, I thought.

Paul caught me by the wrist, pulling me close. "America, just like you always talked about," he whispered into my neck, referring to the numerous conversations we had as teenagers about getting famous. Now it was finally happening.

I kissed him softly, his warm lips touching mine and making my whole body feel like it was glowing with love. "Finally, yeah? I told you I'd bring you if I went and I never break a promise." An overjoyed grin spread across his face and I received a hungrier, deeper kiss that nearly made me go cross-eyed with desire. Tragedy, I know.

"Oi, lovebirds! Gettin' off the plane today would be gear!" Ringo cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. We jumped apart, smoothed our hair down, and were swallowed by the roar of thousands of hysterical teenagers.

Even though I was quickly gaining a pounding headache, I couldn't stop beaming as I looked around. Sure, our fans were bonkers, but we had fans. And a lot of them too.

"Boys, you need to hurry!" Brian barked, looking extremely nervous. I didn't blame him, the police could only hold back so many crazy people for so long.

I wanted to say something back in my trademarked sarcastic manner, but he definitely wouldn't have heard me so I nodded to show I understood and made a beeline for the car. Once inside, I sank into my seat and sighed with relief. George slumped against the window, panting shallowly. He looked awful.

"Don't go belly up on us, okay mate?" Paul nudged the ill boy lightly. "We sort of need you, y'know."

George cracked his eyes open, licked his dry lips, and croaked, "Piss. Off." Not too sick to be grumpy, then. That was a positive sign, we hoped.

At the hotel inside the lobby the staff informed us that our room was on the third floor and also imparted to us that the elevators weren't working and hadn't been for a week. I snuck a glance at George, who had looked at the stairwell in despair after hearing those words. He was on the verge of fainting from exhaustion and overexposure to a lot of noise. Going up the stairs would probably spell disaster for him.

Now for the task of getting him up the aforementioned stairs. Paul and I got on either side of him and he braced his arms on our shoulders to hold himself up. Ringo brought up the rear with a steadying hand on George's back in case he would reel backwards suddenly.

Though it was a slow process, we made it to the hotel room without any catastrophes. George dove into bed immediately and the rest of us collapsed into various couches and chairs with sighs of happiness at the long-awaited comfort. Paul and I were on the couch and I flipped onto my back so my legs dangled over the edge and my head rested on Paul's lap. He ran a massaging hand through my hair, fingernails scratching lightly at my scalp. I nearly purred like a content cat.

Looking over to Ringo, I saw he was flat out asleep in an armchair with his head tilted back and legs up on the coffee table. Exhaling slowly I looked up at Paul, who was nearly drowsing again as well.

Paul's POV

I looked down at John's relaxed expression. He rubbed at my leg almost absentmindedly, which was dangling off the couch. A small smile curved his lips up a little.

Something was bothering him and had been for some time, I could tell that much. Though what it was, I didn't know at the time. John's general emotions were easy to read for me, but sometimes the specifics were buried deep in his dark brown eyes. Whenever he wasn't talking to someone, he adopted a faraway look and his brow furrowed slightly. Whatever he was thinking about was bothering him greatly. At times, I'd wake up to an empty bed and he'd be sitting in his classic reading position in the corner by the lamp he elected to leave on in the night. At times I don't think he was reading, but merely laying on his back with his legs up against the wall and propped up to the side on one elbow and staring at a book blankly while his thoughts turned cartwheels in his head.

I wished he would tell me, but at the same time, it occurred to me that the problem might not be mine to meddle in.

A/N: Oh Paul, if you only knew... Dramatic irony, anyone?

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