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[personal profile] obstinatrix
Title: Backwards Traveller
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Paul
Authors: [livejournal.com profile] tini_91 and [livejournal.com profile] obstinatrix
Summary/Notes: New York in the late 70s feels like a world away from Europe almost two decades earlier, but when John settles down to write some more of his short 'fiction', he finds that, frankly, he misses Paris. This is 1961, in retrospective.
Warnings: This chapter a) is very long and b) contains some extremely explicit sex, so if you wanted to skip and wait for the final part, you wouldn't have missed much plot-wise. ;)

"You do know that my birthday's tomorrow, right?"

Paul chuckled at that. "'Course I do. I'm your best mate after all, aren't I?"


"Shut up, love." And with that, Paul leaned in and pressed his lips chastely against John's.

Somehow, ever since they had arrived here in Paris, and ever since they had started doing things, they had become swiftly more and more used to it, as if they had been doing it for years. It felt natural, kissing John. The oddness that should have been there, the wrongness, had somehow got lost. Paul shivered at the way John lightly trailed his tongue along Paul's bottom lip and coaxed his mouth open. Once they were kissing properly, John reached up to grab Paul's neck, his fingertips lightly drawing circles on Paul's sensitive skin.

After a while, Paul withdrew from the kiss, panting slightly.

"Fuck, I'm nervous about this, John. What if those two old poofters were wrong with this lube stuff and just taking the piss?"

"It'll be all right, Paul, don't worry."

They had agreed that John would be the one on top, that he'd be the one to take Paul. "I'm older," had formed the larger part of John's argument, and as ever, it trumped most protests. At first Paul had of course put up resistance, and had quarrelled with John about it a couple of times, but in the end -- if he was being honest with himself -- he had thought about it often enough, anyway. The protest had only happened for his honour's sake, and nothing else. Also, it would be John's birthday soon, so who was he to spoil it for his friend?

Still, though, the anxiety niggled at the back of Paul's mind. This was -- this was big, this was. It felt different. John had assured him that it wasn't, really; in his typical Lennonesque way, he had been able to provide a ready answer for all of Paul's concerns. That was John, always, although Paul knew it was more than a little his fault for being so corruptible. We're not like this, John, Paul had said, to which John had pointed out that they'd not been queer earlier, either, but all the other stuff had still felt good -- "and queers aren't special people with biologically different arseholes, you know, Paul. If it feels nice, it's gonna feel nice -- the end. You know?" And Paul had agreed, because that was all very logical, but the thing he couldn't quite bring himself to say was that this, unlike everything else, felt like it would really mean something -- and, worse, Paul didn't want to put this to John because he thought John would undoubtedly say 'don't be daft, it doesn't mean anything'. And Paul, for whatever conflicted reason, did not want to hear that from John.

Stop being such a girl, he chided himself sternly. It's just sex. It's just John.

It was the second thing, more than the first, that made Paul relax, breathing steadily, long slow breaths.

"All right?" John asked him, uncharacteristically gentle. "Look -- we don't have to do it right now, you know. We can work up to it."

That sounded better. If Paul didn't have to think about it as a great looming eventuality, maybe he'd be able to let the other part of himself, the part that rather wanted the solid weight of John on top of him, take over.

"Just kiss me, eh?" He tugged at John's collar and John laughed, not cruelly.

"Of course, love. I think I can manage that."

He leaned in. Paul leaned up, tilting his chin, and then their mouths met and clung, John's lips giving softly against Paul's own. After a few soft kisses, the next ones were deeper, lips working more insistently against each other, until John broke away, breathless, pushing at Paul's clavicle.

"Haven't shaved, I see, McCartney. Come on, lie down."

"Shut up," Paul said, but he let himself be pushed, went down easily onto his back on the little bed. Above him, John smiled, one hand creeping out to brush Paul's cheek with an unusual gentleness, and then he settled himself down over Paul, half on top of him, one leg thrown over Paul's thigh.

"C'mere," John said, turning Paul's face to his. Another kiss, and this time John didn't hesitate, didn't confine himself to brief brushes of mouths. His tongue slid wetly against Paul's and Paul groaned, arching his back involuntarily. If John would only go on kissing him like this, he thought he could do anything for him. He'd never met a lass who kissed as well as John.

Eventually, John slid a hand down, along Paul's body, and cupped him gently through his trousers. It wasn't needy or anything, just a friendly grope to encourage Paul a bit. He sighed and pressed himself up slightly against the palm of John's hand, before he put his own hand over John's and applied pressure to it. Paul could feel John's lips curving up into a smile, and when John squeezed and rubbed him gently, Paul smiled, too.

They took their time with getting undressed and approaching their 'goal' for the day. Paul was still tense, still a bit nervous at the back of his mind, and John, unusually sweet with him, did everything to take Paul's mind off what they were going to do. When they undressed, they undressed one another, and somehow, it was better in a strange way than it had been with girls before. Maybe because they were taking their time, unworried by the possibility of a sudden parental intrusion. With random girls, or even some of their girlfriends, it was always rather quick unless they felt a bit more affectionate than usual. But with John, whom Paul knew better than any other person, there was a familiarity about it that made it feel like a coming-together, as if they had been made for this.

Usually, Paul would have cringed at that thought -- soft as it was and so very queer -- but not now. Not as John carefully took off Paul's shirt and kissed his neck and made those pleased little sounds. If wanting this made him a nancy boy, well, then he couldn't care less at the moment.

"Maybe we should've had a bit more beer," Paul ventured, made slightly nervous by the shift in atmosphere, the strange new warmth that curled around them as John kissed his throat, the hollow of his clavicle.

When John glanced up, though, he only shook his head once, firmly, and his eyes were warm and certain. "Nah. Don't want to be drunk for this, Paul." Softly, he pressed his mouth to Paul's nipple, mouthed at it a little, but it wasn't the sensation that made Paul gasp so much as the way John held his eyes, as if he'd decided, now that they'd come this far, that any kind of nervousness could just go to hell. As if they'd jumped off the bridge now, and could do nothing other than just fucking swim when they hit the water. "I want to see you."

"Jesus Christ, John." Paul sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, hand twisting into John's hair, gripping it tightly.

Evidently, John was encouraged by the gesture, because his head dipped again and then his mouth was warm and wet around Paul's nipple, sucking at it, and then, just when Paul was beginning to feel slightly as if John had been possessed by some unfamiliar gentle creature, nipping at it with his teeth. Paul scrambled for John's shirt, still hanging loosely off his shoulders, resisting the urge to arch up against John's mouth.

"Let me just," he managed, "can I --" He could only manage fragments of sentences with John's mouth working him like that, tugging at him. It was as if all the sensation in his body had been drawn to that one point, surging up under John's mouth, and it was all Paul could do to bite back a moan as he shoved the cotton off John's shoulders, feeling them warm and smooth and bare under Paul's palms. Girls didn't feel like this, didn't touch like this, so blunt and sure. Often enough, Paul had admired the breadth of John's shoulders from across the stage, but even since they'd been here, in Paris, he'd felt not quite able to touch, to explore. Now he could do anything he wanted; now he could feel the shift of John's muscles under his skin, bite at the smoothness until there were red marks. Except that John had shifted his mouth lower, now, licking a wet trail towards Paul's navel, and Paul suddenly couldn't concentrate on anything but that, the muscles in his thighs jerking in anticipation.

It took all of Paul's willpower to bite back the moan that wanted to escape him. Instead, he took a deep breath, swallowed, and then reached out to cup John's cheek.

"Johnny?" he said, softly, and John looked up at him, grinning as he gave the sensitive skin right below Paul's navel a brief lick. Curse that Lennon. "John," Paul tried again, flicking his tongue over his lips, "I--What... What do you want to do now?"

He wasn't really sure himself what exactly he was hoping for but seeing John so close to his abdomen, feeling his weight against him, and his warm breath ghosting over his skin... It surely gave him some ideas what could happen next.

"What do you mean?" John asked and continued to kiss Paul's stomach, licking and nibbling at it, heedless of Paul's gasps and squirms in response.

"Are you--?" And Paul didn't even need to finish the question. Something very close to fear crossed John's features briefly, before he managed to compose himself. Paul could see that John was contemplating the answer, but nothing came, only John's hands decisively unzipping Paul's trousers and peeling them down his thighs.


"Just wait and see, alright, Macca?" John sighed as he carelessly dropped Paul's trousers on the floor. Then, he leaned forward and gave Paul a brief kiss, his voice low when he spoke. "I have no idea what I'll do. Let's just see what happens, okay?"

"Okay." Paul nodded, and John kissed him again before reapplying himself to his task, mouthing at the fine skin of Paul's abdomen.

In the meantime, Paul had lain down again with his eyes closed. He knew he was moaning feebly as John stroked his inner thighs and circled his navel with his tongue, but somehow it was impossible to stop. Blindly, he reached out to pet John's hair, but found it unexpectedly much lower than he had expected it -- and then he felt something hot and damp pressing against his clothed dick, and opened his eyes to see John dragging his parted lips tentatively along Paul's hardening erection.

"John, I--"

"Shut up, Paul, or you'll ruin it." John shot him a brief look, and only now did Paul notice how pink John's cheeks were.

Ruining things at this juncture was the last thing Paul wanted, so he nodded tightly and murmured acquiescence, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to close his eyes again. There was something hotly, wrongly thrilling about the sight of John like this, crouched between Paul's legs, mouthing gently at the straining line of Paul's erection. Often enough, Paul had seen that mouth curled in a sneer or doling out sarcastic remarks, but now it was only soft, hesitant, as it shaped the spine of Paul's cock. Transfixed, his chest heaving shallowly with his breaths, Paul pulled himself up on his elbows, feeling himself harden further with anticipation as John's mouth moved upward. Then, a shift, and John's lips were pressed hard and closed to the head of Paul's dick where the fabric was wet with anticipatory precome.

"John!" Paul spat the word like a bullet, more surprise than anything, and then John hummed softly against him and Paul could barely breathe.

"John," he murmured again, hands finding John's shoulders, carding up through his soft hair, slightly damp now with sweat. He felt unhinged, suddenly, his thighs trembling, aching to press up against John's mouth, but John was taking his time, uncertain, and Paul knew that a wrong move might make him stop.

"Sshhh," John admonished, softly. Then, a dampness, and pressure; Paul bit his lip at the sight of John pushing the flat of his tongue against the head of Paul's cock, right on the sensitive slit. John's dick, Paul had noticed with fascination, you had to draw back the foreskin before you could even see that, but Paul was smooth and cut and John's tongue felt like an electric shock as it touched him there.

"Oh, Jesus," Paul gasped out, tugging at John's hair, and then he was arching his back, lifting his hips; couldn't help it any more. "John, please -- oh --"

John sucked at him. Paul heard, rather than saw, the harsh breath John drew in first, the way he closed his eyes as if to block out the last of his fear and reservations, but he was sucking hard through the cotton of Paul's underwear, head tilted to take him in almost sideways-on, and it wasn't as immediate a feeling as when girls had sucked him bare but it was John, John with Paul's dick mostly in his mouth and that made it better than anything.

At this point, anything that might have come out of Paul's mouth would have been incoherent. With an effort, he fought his hips down again, trying to keep still, and tangled one hand in his own hair -- anything not to grab John too hard, push him too far. But John was sucking at him steadily now, making Paul shiver, his dick jerking. Then John's thumbs hooked in the waistband of Paul's underwear and Paul couldn't help but moan, more at the idea than anything.

"All right, Macca," John chided him, glancing up. But his mouth was curving in a smile and his voice was hoarse and hot, as if he liked this. As if he liked sucking Paul's dick like a girl or a queer and that idea shouldn't have made Paul hot all over, but it did, oh Christ, it fucking did.

"Yeah," Paul said faintly, unable to take his eyes off John's hands tugging Paul's shorts down over his arse, tossing them aside. John's face as it moved close again. Then John nuzzled him, rubbed the bridge of his beautiful nose against the spine of Paul's dick and when he lifted his head again, there was a smear of precome shimmering on his cheek. "Fucking hell," Paul said, faintly, and John grinned at him, suddenly manic and pleased, though his cheeks were still pink.

"Mad, eh?" John said with a wink, and Paul would have answered him, except that now John was sucking the naked crown of Paul's cock into his mouth and all Paul could do was collapse onto his back on the bed and yell John's name.

John squeezed Paul's thighs once, hard, reminding him to keep it quiet. Paul was panting, his face flushed, and all he could manage was to give John a weak, apologetic smile in return as he reached out to run his fingers gently through John's hair. John responded with a soft lick across the tip of Paul's cock before he took him into his mouth again and kept on sucking lightly until Paul was squirming and begging for more. It took John a couple of tries and a good amount of bravery to actually lower his mouth slowly onto Paul's dick and bob his head, but the sounds Paul made, and the way he tugged lightly at John's hair while the other hand was blindly grasping the bedsheets, were actually worth it.

It didn't take long, though, before Paul's thighs began to tremble, heat pooling in his abdomen, and he let go of John's hair. This wasn't a good sign. A part of him didn't want to come just yet, not when this was going to be their first real time together. Paul wanted to stay aroused while John fucked him and he wasn't sure if he could be once it came down to actual fucking.

"John... Stop. Please," he managed to rasp out, breathing heavily through his nostrils, "I'm too close."

John was breathing hard, too, somewhat to Paul's surprise and gratification. It didn't exactly help with his situation to see John that way, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks and fingers fluttering against Paul's hips as he worked his mouth up and down Paul's cock in wet, steady strokes. At Paul's urgings, John hesitated for a second, drawing his mouth up to the tip of Paul until the slick crown of him was just barely resting against John's lower lip. But then John's eyes flashed mischievously, defiantly, and Paul realised, with a mixture of lust and panic, that the hesitation was only momentary.

John sucked him down again, and the descent of his mouth was smoother, this time, more practised. John was learning his way around this, Paul could tell; he felt himself nudge up against the back of John's mouth this time, the soft fleshy place where his throat began, and John coughed slightly, but didn't gag; only pressed his tongue hard to the underside of Paul's cock and drew off again -- and then back. God, but he was getting good at this. Good already, because it was John, his reddish hair fallen forward over his face and his beautiful hands clutching Paul to him as he worked, but that wasn't all that was making Paul shiver, all the sensation in his body arrowing down to the place between his legs where John's mouth was taking him apart.

"John," he protested, but it was weak, now. He tugged at John's hair, this time to yank him off, rather than pull him closer, but John only laughed, the sound still distinct around his mouthful of cock, and clung on harder, knuckles whitening as he began to move faster. His hands shifted, flexing, encouraging, and Paul could hardly help the way he began to move as they suggested, his hips lifting to meet John's mouth in a slow undulation that became a steady roll.

"John," Paul whispered, but it wasn't a protest now, not any more. He had forgotten that. Why had he not wanted to come? He wanted it now, with a fierce urgency; wanted to come down John's throat, or on his face, whatever John would allow, and then he would get hard again just from the thought of it and John would fuck him, the way he was fucking John's mouth now and --

It hit him all at once, a cry breaking out of him as he started to come, pulsing once in John's mouth and then, when John had pulled away sputtering ("Bloody hell, Macca!") the rest of it spurting over the side of John's face, the hollow of his neck.

"I'm sorry," Paul managed, breathless, but he wasn't really sorry, not exactly. His whole body was buzzing, and John looked...

Their eyes met, and Paul could feel his cock twitching, its youthful eagerness too intense to be dispelled by one orgasm alone.

"I'm not going to say that it's okay," John said, but he was smiling -- even though it was weak.

However, Paul still reached out for him, mumbling, "Come here, love," which would have usually made him cringe or feel embarrassed at least, but not now. John didn't seem to mind either, seeing as how he crawled on top of Paul and captured his lips instantly in a greedy kiss. But it didn't last long. Paul withdrew gently from the kiss before he smiled at John and leaned in, his tongue flicking briefly across John's jaw and licking off the mess he had made.

Truth be told, Paul had been curious about what it might feel like, to do this, but when he licked it off John's cheek with soft strokes of his tongue, he almost regretted it. The taste was awful, and yet, when he noticed the astonished look on the other's face, eyes clouded and cheeks pink, Paul continued with the soft licks and gentle kisses.

"Better now?" he murmured and rubbed his nose against John's. John hummed in reply, pecking Paul's lips once more.

"Lie down, love. I'll be right back." And with that, John got up from the bed to rummage through his clothes.

"What are you looking for?" Paul asked, head turned on the pillow, facing John, while he absent-mindedly trailed his fingertips along his chest.

"Handkerchief," John replied and Paul smiled at that.

"I said I was sorry," he said, "Now come back, Johnny."

John clicked his tongue, chiding him. "My, my! Such impatience from a nice young man like you, Macca!"

When John crawled back onto their bed, Paul noticed -- not quite without worry -- that John carried not only the tube of lube they had bought earlier, but also the little sex toy.

"What are you going to do with that?" Paul tried to keep the nervousness out of his voice, but he wasn't sure how far he succeeded. He pulled himself up onto his elbows and his eyebrows drew together unconsciously as he watched John clamber back into position between Paul's legs, gently easing them further apart to make room.

"What do you think?" John asked, raising his eyebrows suggestively as he fumbled with the cap on the bottle of lube.

"I've no idea," Paul shot back, honestly. "I thought you only nicked it for a laugh."

"Well," John said, drizzling lube nonchalantly onto his fingers, "I did, at the time, but I've had an idea. Here, spread, love."

John's tone was so casual that Paul found himself spreading his thighs without thinking, his mind still too busy with its other concern -- the little string of beads -- to register the connection between it and the order he had just unthinkingly obeyed. Then John's fingers crept up between Paul's legs, the slick tip of the index finger rubbing lightly over the clenched muscle of Paul's arsehole, and the connection came flooding back.

"Christ!" Paul clutched at the bedsheet two-handed, his legs jerking.

"All right?" John looked up at him wide-eyed, earnest. His finger was moving in slow circles, applying a little pressure, but not quite enough to breach the muscle -- just enough to tease it. Paul swallowed, trying to process the strange new sensations.

"Yeah," he said, "yeah, it -- feels nice, actually." And it did, nothing about it demanding or frightening, just the slow tease of John's finger coaxing Paul's body to relax. John smiled.

"Good," he said, "maybe those old queers were onto something after all."

A push, and John, Paul realised to his shock, was inside. Only to the first knuckle, but there had been no pain, even if the feeling wasn't so much pleasant as just odd. Paul frowned slightly, shifting his weight, and John shushed him, pushing his finger as far into Paul as it would go, then withdrawing and working his way back in with a second slicked finger. "Still okay?"

"Yeah," Paul murmured, trying to make himself relax. John was moving his fingers slowly in and out, now, rotating them in the tight clench of Paul's body and then pulling out almost to the tips, and Paul could feel himself relaxing. It didn't feel amazing, or anything, but Paul thought he could see where the potential might lie.

"Good," John said, again, and then, "Let me try something."

Paul's immediate reaction to that was panic. Certainly, things were okay so far, but John's brilliant schemes had ended in disaster enough times in the past that Paul was wary. His hand went immediately to John's wrist, but John was still moving his fingers slowly, thrusting them smoothly in and out, and the sensation was becoming distracting enough that Paul somehow wasn't quick enough to stop John when he slid his fingers out entirely and replaced them with the first, small bead on the string. It wasn't string, exactly, not as such, but something stiffer than that, and Paul gasped as he felt a second bead slip easily through the ring of muscle to be swallowed up by his body. Then a third, and John was still going.

"John," Paul gasped. He could feel sweat breaking out on his skin, now, his cock beginning to fill again. The expression on John's face was one of intense concentration as he fed the beads in, slowly...slowly.

"All right, love," John said. Perhaps half of the beads were inside Paul's body, now; he could feel a strange fullness gathering, and with each new bead, the distribution of those already inside him shifted, which was an interesting sensation. Then John pushed in another bead, a larger one, and Paul --

"Oh!" He clutched at the sheets. Now the beads inside of him were pressing against something, something that made Paul's heart beat fast and his dick jump. John's face broke out immediately in a grin.

"Yeah?" Another bead went in, and Paul groaned and shifted his hips on the mattress. "Is it doing something?"

"God, yeah," Paul panted, lifting his hips a little. "Dunno what, but -- keep goin', John, please."

John complied immediately. With a swift careful movement, he pushed the last two beads into Paul and Paul gasped at that, his hips going immediately still.

"Paul?" John asked quietly, "Is it still okay?"

Paul's breathing had become shallow, his eyes closed and his lips parted. With his eyebrows knitted together, he nodded slowly and swallowed. "Yeah," he eventually rasped out, "I-It's okay. It's... It's good."

And how good it was. Paul would never have expected it. That toy had looked to him like a torture instrument, but now... But now it was teasing some strange spot inside him that had his cock getting hard again. Unfortunately, there wasn't enough pressure for Paul to feel more and so he tried to wriggle around a little but it was futile. Frustrated noises escaped him and when he heard John cursing silently, he opened his eyes to find John staring at him with dark eyes.

Gently, John pulled the string back and Paul almost instantly replied with a small whimper. John's hand stilled when Paul grasped his wrist.

"No. Don't."

"Why?" John frowned at him, but smiling nevertheless.

With pink cheeks, Paul avoided his eyes as he spoke, "It's just -- It feels good. I don't want it to be over just yet."

"Silly tart," John smiled as he leaned forward and kissed Paul. "Shut up and enjoy it." And while he said this, he slowly, teasingly removed one bead after another while Paul moaned into the kiss, lifting his hips up of his own accord.

"God, Macca," John breathed, sounding openly fascinated, "you're getting off bloody hard on this, aren't you?"

"Shut up," Paul tried to say, but John chose just the right moment to slip the next bead past the sensitive entrance to his body and so it came out as a broken little moan, giving Paul away.

"That's okay," John told him. His voice was a little ragged too, and when Paul managed to open his eyes fully again, he could see that John was aching hard. "You're meant to like it. I'm glad you like it. Then maybe you'll like..."

He trailed off, and his sudden shyness, the pink on his cheeks, made Paul bold. "The other, eh?" he teased gently, and lifted a hand to push at the straining bulge in John's jeans which, by some oversight, were still on. "Come on, Johnny. Feel all empty now."

"Christ." John closed his eyes for a second, as if gathering himself. Then he tugged, jerking the last few beads out of Paul in a way that made Paul arch and whimper, clutching at John's arms. "All right, give me a sec -- I better, um..."

His hands, Paul noticed, were shaking as they unzipped and shoved and wrestled jeans and underwear down and off, and then Paul could see John's dick, thick and ready and wet at the tip. So ready Paul could smell the dark musk of him, and his whole body roiled with sudden want.

"Come on," he urged, and spread his thighs a little wider, canting his hips up, "Before I come to me senses."

John's shaking hands meant the amount of lube that ended up on his cock was probably excessive, but Paul didn't mind that, even when John's hands found Paul's thighs and tugged him close, still slippery. John's eyebrows were furrowed with concentration, and the blunt head of his cock pressed against Paul felt bigger than fingers, bigger than beads. But Paul's body twitched, wanting it; he remembered the size of the largest bead, at least as big as John, and breathed out slowly, relaxing.

"Come on," he whispered, and pushed down, shoving himself onto the tip of John's cock, urging. "Are we going to fucking shag or aren't we?"

"Bloody hell," John muttered under his breath, and then with a gasp like a swimmer breaking surface, began to push in, slowly, slowly, until all of him was inside.


Suddenly, a shrill cry yanked John out of his thoughts. He very nearly jumped out of his chair, but then he realised that his son was crying, and he got up, cursing softly under his breath.

“Yoko?” he shouted, but no answer came. Sean's screaming only got louder, though, and so John yelled once more, “Yoko!”

“Daddy...?” Sean whimpered from his room, his fragile little voice breaking from his uncontrollable sobbing.

“I'm coming,” John sighed and quickly walked over to his child's bedroom. “Daddy's here, love. Did you have a nightmare?”

As soon as John had sat down on Sean's tiny bed, the boy quickly crawled into his lap and buried his wet face in his father's chest, holding on tight to his shirt as he continued to cry softly.

“Monsters,” he barely managed to stammer out as if he was too afraid they might come back at the mention of them.

“Where?” John probed gently, caressing the back of Sean's soft head.

“U--under the bed.”

“Alright, let me take a look.”

John gently put his son back down onto the mattress before he moved to kneel next to the bed.

“Daddy, no!” the toddler cried when John bowed his head and looked underneath the bed, but John only smiled at that. He found one of Sean's old action figures and took it.

“I guess Superman wanted to play a trick on you!” he grinned up at Sean as he waved the figure in front of his son's face. Sean grabbed it immediately and pressed it to his body.

“No,” he pouted, “Superman is good.”

“Well, then the monster's gone, Sean. He's on the run.” John leaned forward and kissed his son's forehead. “And your daddy's here to protect you. Now go back to sleep.”

The boy eyed John with a still slightly scared look on his face but when John promised him to leave the door open and the light in the hall switched on, he seemed to relax and lay down again with Superman neatly squished up his small body.

John gave a soft smile before he left. What would Paul say if he could see him now?

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