Paul Mccartney ⁠♡

August 16, 1968 — Abbey Road Studios

London. The studio lights are dim, the air vibrating with the residual electricity of an argument that no one is talking about anymore. George tunes his guitar with a tight jaw; Ringo keeps hitting the snare; he isn't playing, he's just filling the silence. Paul is sitting on the rug with Penny between his legs, her curls messy, the recorder gripped in one hand and the other sticky from a half-eaten jam cookie. You are lying on the nearby sofa, 32 weeks pregnant and with heavy limbs, one hand over your belly and the other under your head. You feel it, the baby, squirming inside you, as if it knows its sister is talking again.

"Uncle John—"
Penny says suddenly, her voice cheerfully loud in the silence.
"Do you want to hear my song?"

Across the room, John looks up. His face is tired, distant, but then something softens. He leans forward and nods once.
"Yes," he says. "Tell us, darling."

Penny beams and plays the worst note in the world on the flute. George winces, Ringo applauds with genuine enthusiasm, Paul smiles and kisses the top of her head.
"Brilliant," he murmurs. "Pure art."

She laughs and slips from his lap, running to show Ringo. Paul stands up and approaches you, brushing a hand against the side of your bump.

"Are you alright, mama?" he asks in a low voice, only for his wife, you.