A/N: Okay, so I lied. This story was never going to have a happy ending. And I have never in my life cried so much while writing something. I recommend tissues. I'm sorry, guys.

This was almost six pages in length on my laptop. I won't say enjoy the end of Life is What Happens, but please do read it.

John's POV (December 5th, 1980)

It had been ten years since the Beatles parted ways, unless of course you counted the time we had to spend together on the various lawsuits. I tended not to, because none of us really interacted. Paul had been the one to do most of the suing, so it was the three who remained versus him. Or rather, our lawyer versus his lawyer.

By the end of it all, we couldn't even make eye contact with each other. If words were exchanged, they were the bare minimum. At first chance, Yoko and I moved to New York City. I loved it there; I could take a walk anywhere and go almost without notice. But even that wasn't a place I could be in peace. Because of that crazy notion about peace that I believed in, when my visa ran out, getting back into America with citizenship was like trying greased pole. In the end, it worked out.

But now, my life was as close to perfect as it was capable of being. I was getting back on the music scene,—having just released a record—I had a son who never ceased to amaze me, and I had Yoko. We hadn't been without our problems, but we came back together eventually. Everything worked out in the end. Just like it was supposed to. Like I said, perfect.

… Except it wasn't, not quite, anyway. Every now and then, I went through a period of varying length where I just missed Paul. I couldn't stop replaying the memories we made in the early sixties. There was an actually a physical ache in my chest, like there was a Paul-shaped hole there that could only be filled with his presence. Most times, I could hole myself up in my studio, listen to a couple Beatles records—more specifically, Paul's songs—and I could make it go away for awhile.

Not this time, though. This time was different. Since eight in the morning, I'd been working my way through every single Beatles record. When I finished, the feeling was still there. If anything, it had gotten more intense. So, I began to listen to Paul's solo albums. Even Yoko didn't know I owned those. It was now one in the afternoon and the first thing on my mind was still the bassist with the infuriatingly perfect voice. This couldn't go on.

Maybe if I could just hear his voice again, and not just when it echoed around my otherwise empty studio from my record player. If I could hear it for real, maybe...

For some reason, a reason I couldn't to remember, I was in possession of Paul's current phone number. I might've gotten it during the events of the many lawsuits because my lawyer needed it or something. The fact remained that I had it on my desk and was now seriously considering using it. Just do it, John, I told myself firmly. It'll put your mind at ease, even if he hangs up three seconds after you say hello.

With fingers that had begun to shake just the tiniest bit without my prior notice, I dialed the number scrawled on a yellowing bit of paper. Some of them had faded and I worried I dialed some of them incorrectly. What if a complete stranger picked up? Or, worse still, what if Paul actually picked up? I had no idea what I was going to say to him. "Hi Paul, I can't stop thinking about you and I have your phone number so I called" just didn't sound right.

The ringing buzzed in my ear. I tapped my toes against the floor in a cadence that sounded suspiciously like "Two of Us". It rang on and on and I was on the verge of putting the phone down when, "Hello?" sounded in my ear. All the air rushed from my lungs.

"Hi Paul," I said, keeping my voice carefully neutral.

A sharp breath came from the other end. "John?" A disbelieving tone was heavy in his voice. But it was Paul's voice. A voice I hadn't heard outside of songs on the radio and on records and the occasional television interview. And it sounded wonderful.

"Yeah."

A pause; a long pause. "No offense meant, but I haven't spoken to you in... five or six years, maybe more. Why are you calling me?"

"I, uh," I stammered inelegantly. "I'm feeling a little nostalgic, I guess."

"And that meant you had to call me?"

"Well, no... It's just—I just—Dammit, I never seem to be short of words at any other time, why now?" My difficulties were rewarded with a tiny laugh from his end. "I... this is gonna sound stupid and I'm sorry, but I... miss you."

"You what?"

I sighed, flopping back in my chair and sliding my glasses down my nose so I could pinch the bridge of my nose. "I miss you, all right? We've been stuck on a sour note for years and there's a bloody ton of things we never talked through, at least, not civilly."

He was silent for so long I feared he'd hung up on me. "There are a lot of things we never talked about properly, you're right," he said. The way his words came out in a hesitating way alerted me to the fact that he was dragging a hand through his hair rhythmically. "And... Ikindofmissyoutoo."

"Mind running that by me again?" I asked, bemused. Either Paul had just invented a new language, or he was saying what I thought he was saying. A grin toyed with the corners of my mouth.

"I kind of miss you too," he repeated his earlier admission with greater clarity.

"Come visit me," I blurted out before I became fully conscious of what I was saying and stopped myself. Well, it was out there now. No taking it back.

"Come visit you?" he reiterated. "As in, come to New York City?"

I nodded before I remembered he was on the other side of the Atlantic. "Yeah, I could show you around, show you the studio, we could talk... unless of course, you don't want to."

"No, actually, that sounds like a pretty gear idea," said Paul slowly. "When?"

After I recovered from almost falling out of my chair in shock, I composed myself and tried not to grin like too much of an idiot. I flipped through the calendar on my desk to see if I could find a day Yoko hadn't planned too much. "How about the eighth?"

"The eighth of this month?" he asked. "Bit soon, don't you think?"

I raised an eyebrow. "As if you'll have trouble organizing a quick flight over."

"Yeah, no, I can do that," he said, sounding almost a little dazed. "So, the eighth then?"

"Yep."

"See you in three days."

"Bye, Paul." He hung up and I set the phone down, and a feeling of calm and happiness I thought was only associated with my new life flooded through me. Paul was coming to New York.

Paul's POV

I set the phone back on the holder, a feeling somewhat similar to shock setting in. John had called, completely out of the blue, and invited me to come visit him in America.

And I said yes. "Oh my God," I mumbled to myself, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my palms. What was I going to do?"

"Paul, you in here?" Linda poked her head into the office. I looked up. She took one glance at my likely shell-shocked expression and asked, "who was on the phone? What's wrong?"

I took long, deep breath to buy myself time to figure out what to say next. "John called," I mumbled, raking both hands through my hair.

Sympathy crossed her face. She perched on the arm of the chair and wrapped a comforting arm around my shoulders. "What did he say?" she asked.

"He... he asked me to come visit him," I said.

Linda didn't know about the fact that John and I had had a relationship that went far deeper than just songwriting. Questions flashed through her eyes. "Why's that?" she inquired.

I sighed. "I guess he just wants to talk through some stuff," I replied. 'There's a lot between us that we never fully resolved."

"Do you want to go?" her voice was gentle.

I was silent for awhile. Her willingness to take my opinion as it was surprised me. Linda had always been one of the most understanding people I've ever known, if not the most understanding, but she knew how things had been with John. She knew how much we had fought and how it had made me feel. As a result, he had never been one of her favorite people.

"I don't know," I finally said. She rubbed my shoulder before turning to face me.

"Do you want to know what I think?" she asked. I gave her the 'go on' gesture. "I think you should go," she stated, taking into account the shocked expression on my face and continuing, "look at it this way. You don't want to go because you don't know what's going to happen or what either of you will say to each other. But if you don't go, I think you'll always wonder what you might've said or done if you'd gone. And it will bother you and nag at you forever."

I gaped at my wife. How was it that she always knew exactly what to say and when to say it? If I had kept it to myself, I would've been puzzling over going versus not going for hours, maybe even days. "Thanks, Lin," I said gratefully, pressing a kiss to her cheek before picking up the phone again. A sense of relief and anticipation washed over me and I grinned. I had a flight to plan.

~OoOoOoO~

Three days filled with waiting and frantic getting ready later, I was stepping off a plane into the John F. Kennedy airport in New York City. I tugged the collar of my coat up once I was outside with my suitcase and waiting for a cab. It was cold and the sharp wind wasn't helping. When one rolled up for me, I gladly handed my luggage to the cabbie and slid into the backseat. It smelled of old, stale cigarette smoke, but it was warm.

"Where're you off to, Mr. McCartney?" the cabbie asked pleasantly as he got in and began to pull away from the curb. He was an older man with a hat pulled down over graying hair, bushy eyebrows, and an easy smile.

I found myself smiling in return. "The Surrey Hotel, please," I requested.

This had to be one of my favorite cab drivers. He made companionable small talk, but he didn't prod or pry into my personal life. It wasn't an overly long drive and soon I was looking up at the hotel I would be staying in for the next few days. "Have a nice stay, Mr. McCartney," the cabbie called after me when I had paid him and he was driving away.

In the room, I set my suitcase down and looked around. It was lovely, but it felt empty somehow. Like it was missing something. Or rather, someone. With that thought in mind, I sat down at the small desk that the room provided and dialed John's number.

He answered on the first ring. "Hello?"

"Hello, John," I said. "I've just got in."

"Paul!" The excitement was tangible in his voice. "Good flight? Where are you staying?"
I laughed at the rapid-fire questions. This was the John I knew all those years ago. "As far as flights go, it wasn't bad. I'm at the Surrey Hotel, room 308. It's a nice hotel."

"I'll be over in ten minutes," he said quickly before leaving me listening to the dial tone. Be over? Already? All the way there, I had been ready to see John and talk to him about all the things we never got the chance to discuss. But now, I wasn't sure. My stomach was full of butterflies that desperately wanted to escape. They fluttered nervously.

I paced back and forth with enough force that I was surprised thee wasn't a hole worn in the carpet. What would he say? What would I say? I continued this until the sound of a knock at my door brought me back to reality. With shaking hands, I opened the door to my hotel room.

John stood in the doorway. He looked a little older, but so much of him remained the same. His hair wasn't long like it had been for years, but cut and styled in a way that mirrored his Teddy Boy days. In fact, his whole outfit looked like it had come from the mid-fifties.

He noticed me staring and coughed self-consciously, stepping in and closing the door behind him. "I've just got off a photo shoot. Apparently, they wanted a nostalgic look," he said, running a hand through his hair.

"Looks like nostalgia's a common theme lately," I said, gesturing to the sofa and chairs. "Sit down if you'd like. I can make us some tea."

"I'll help you," he offered, following me into the miniature kitchen. As I started a pot of water to boil, he said, "I'm sorry about that song I wrote as a response to one of your songs."

I paused a moment, unable to recall what he was talking about. And then I remembered: "How do You Sleep." "Don't worry about it, John," I said. "It's all water under the bridge. And I was the one who started it."

"I know," he replied, "but I was the one who took it out of proportion. It was an awful thing to do and I'm sorry."

No more words were exchanged until we sat down on the sofa. We began to talk. The conversation started with the lawsuits and disagreements over the music. I noticed we carefully skirted around the topic of our failed 'marriage' until much later. I had to bring it up first.

"I never told Linda bout us," I said to John, finishing the remnants of my tea and setting the mug aside. "I don't know why. It's not that I'm ashamed, because I'm not."

"I never told Yoko either," he said, folding his hands in his lap. "But I have missed you, more than I could ever begin to tell you. I haven't felt right since I told you we were done. It's—it's like something's been missing, y'know?"

"John, I—" I began, looking up at him nervously as he stood up. I couldn't finish my sentence before the distance between us was closed and his lips were on mine. I closed my eyes, melting into his embrace. It felt like the missing piece of the puzzle had ben put in place. His hands cradled my face, reading my features hungrily, like a blind man finding out his eyes weren't the only things he could use to see the world. Years of unspoken feelings poured between the temporary connection, so much so that it left me breathless. When he pulled away at last, I wanted more. It was so damn confusing. Deep brown eyes studied me.

"I have to go to a recording session with Yoko and go home to see Sean, but I will be back tonight," he promised. "I think we've got more to talk about than we thought." He pressed one final kiss to my forehead and left.

I sat on the couch for a good ten minutes after that, gaping into empty air. Not ever, in all my wildest thoughts, had I imagined something like that would happen. What happens from here? I wondered, flopping back on the sofa and flicking the television on for some white noise. Previously, I had put a few books on the table beside the couch and I picked one up, losing myself between the pages.

A long time later, enough that my back was noisily protesting being in one position and the sky was pitch black, I looked at the clock. It was eleven o'clock pm. That would explain why my stomach was snarling at me. Something had caught my attention on the telly. I could swear they said John's... name—

If I'd had food in my stomach, it would've been coming back up. The banner across the screen read:

John Lennon Shot Dead in Front of Dakota Building.

I froze, and one second later I was bolting from the room. I had to get to the hospital. It wasn't true. He couldn't be dead. It was a mistake. Or a joke. A really, really sick and cruel joke.

Outside, I flagged down a cab. "Where to at this hour?" the driver asked.

"The hospital," I panted, attempting to keep my emotions in check and almost failing entirely. "Take me to the hospital."

"Are you sick, son?" he asked, looking at my pale face in the rearview mirror with concern.

"No, I'm not," I said impatiently. "But a friend of mine, he's been hurt. Please hurry." I dug my fingers into the seat.

Once there, I stumbled out and ran into the lobby. My eyes burned with salty wetness. They scanned the lobby wildly, looking for someone, anyone, to tell me what the hell was going on. At last, I spotted Yoko. She was slumped against a wall, her petite shoulders shuddering with sobs. I went to her as fast as my trembling legs would carry me.

"Oh God, Yoko," I said as soon as she saw me. "It's true, then? He's really—" I couldn't say it. A choked sob burst from my throat. She pulled me into a hug and I responded. For a long time, all animosity was forgotten. We were two broken people just trying to comfort each other as best we could. "I want to see him," I remembered saying, my voice oddly detached. She nodded mutely, getting a doctor and trying to explain as best she could.

"Take all the time you need, Mr. McCartney," he told me, laying a heavy hand on my shoulder and leading me to the morgue. He stopped me in front of a sheet-covered body and left, closing the door behind him.

Taking a long, slow breath in, I gingerly pulled back the white sheet. What I saw made me want to sob, and I did. John's alarmingly pale, still face was revealed. The skin had taken on a gray pallor and his eyes were closed. It almost looked like he was asleep. Almost. Four plasters spotted his torso. I knew what they covered and it caused my heart to feel as though it had been torn from my chest.

"John," I whispered, tears slipping down my unfeeling cheeks. "Why did you have to die, John? There was so much more I wanted to say to you. I can say it now, but you'll never hear it."

I found a chair in the corner of the room and pulled it up next to him. My hands pulled the sheet down enough so I could pull one of his hands free. It was ice cold to the touch and beginning to stiffen. Where only hours before there had been so much life, there was nothing. More years dripped from my face and into the collar of my jacket.

Holding his hand between both of mine, I rested my chin on his icy knuckles and shut my eyes. "Remember how we found out the attraction was mutual? I was a clod and left my diary in your hospital room because you were sick and I was almost pulling my hair out with worry. You kissed me and the next day, we were both sick," I let out a choked chuckle. "And I couldn't even be mad at you for it, even though I was miserable."

I opened my eyes and looked at his face, half expecting a cheeky retort to be sent my way. Only, there never would be. "I think I'm angry now," I said, attempting to swallow the massive lump in my throat. It remained where it was. "I thought, just for a moment, that we might be able to patch things up again. That we had another chance. And now we don't. You left me." The tears became bitter and my tone attempted to be accusing.

The anger faded almost as quickly it had come and my heart wrenched painfully. It was almost like it was trying to pull itself free from my chest and join the man who had claimed it so completely all those years ago.

"Please come back, John," I whispered. "Don't leave me. Not yet. Don't leave me by myself." Sobs hindered my words and I closed my eyes again, but they did little to stop the fresh waves of tears breaking through them like water through a faulty dam. "Come back."

For an instant, the anger came back. "Don't you dare leave me, John Lennon," I said, the the salty liquid searing my skin where it made contact. "Why are you leaving me again? You can't just run away from me again. I never got to tell—"

I finally broke down entirely, collapsing against his lifeless chest and repeating the same two sentences over and over again. "I never got to tell you I love you. I'm sorry."

I don't know how long I stayed like that. Long enough to run out of tears and continue to cry nothing. Eventually, I sat up. I stood, my legs surprisingly steady. It was like I was no longer in control of my body. I brushed my fingers through his hair and kissed his cold forehead one last time.

"I love you, John," I whispered into his ear, knowing he wouldn't ever hear that. That hurt the most of anything that had happened tonight.

Walking out of the morgue, I brushed off the doctors, Yoko, and anyone else who wanted to talk. I couldn't talk to anyone. Not now. Outside, I walked far enough away that there ween't people and stopped, sticking my hands in my coat pockets and looking up at the cloudy night sky. My left hand encountered two small, circular things that hadn't been there before and a slip of paper. Frowning, I pulled them out. Fresh tears escaped when I saw what it was.

Our wedding rings sat on my palm, winking weakly in the streetlights. The paper read: Can life maybe happen again?

I smiled through the tears and closed my hand around the items. Life had happened.

Just not in the way I expected or wanted it to.

A/N: And there you have it. Life is What Happens has finally come to an end. This is by far the longest chapter I've ever written for it and I have NEVER had more trouble writing a chapter. This hurt. A lot.

I really hope you enjoyed reading this, though. Thank you so much to every single person who reviewed, favorited, or followed this story. I'm always thrilled to get a notification that someone's done one of those things.

If anyone ever has a suggestion for something they think I should write, please don't hesitate to PM me. Thank you all so much again. *sends out virtual hugs*