In Your Atmosphere (Paul McCartney/Beatles Fanfiction)

Chapter 8 - Baby's in Black

She thinks of him
And so she dresses in black
And though he'll never come back
She's dressed in black.                                                                                                                                                   Oh dear, what can I do?
Baby's in black and I'm feeling blue
Tell me, oh what can I do?

It was a quiet drive home, with Paul occasionally leaning over the front seat to adjust the radio or speak to Neil. There were soft kisses and whispers in the dark. The rhythm of the windshield wipers and the patter of the rain on the roof lulled Marisol into drowsy contentment.

They pulled up to a dark and silent house until Lily and Ramsay each gave a single bark when she fitted the key into the front door. "Sssh, sssh," she murmured over the sound of claws clicking on the parquet floor and furry bodies wriggling in delight. She took more time quieting the dogs than was strictly necessary because she still hadn't made up her mind whether or not she should ask Paul inside. Neil waiting outside in the car made it even more awkward. She straightened and met his gaze.

"So do you want..."

"Gah, it's proper Baltic out there tonight!" Paul was already out of his coat and reaching for hers.

"Oh....okay then. Come in and warm up?" She watched as Paul draped their coats across the banister and turned to latch the front door. "Um...have you forgotten someone?"

"Nell? He's alright, innit? He's got my car and a grandmother down the road."

Rubbing his hands together, he went straight to the HiFi and her grandmother's small stack of LPs. "Shall we take a chance on Mr. Cole?" Seconds later the unmistakable velvety voice of Nat King Cole softly serenaded them. 

"Unforgettable, that's what you are..."

By the time Marisol had adjusted the finicky electric heater, Paul looked comfortably at home on her grandmother's sofa. Smiling up at her, he patted the cushion beside him.

"Like a song of love that clings to me, how the thought of you does things to me..."

She smiled back, suddenly self-conscious at the way he was watching her as she slipped off her heels and tried to glide across the room without tripping over one of the dogs weaving around her legs.

"Lie down!" she commanded them, pointing to the floor.

"As you wish," Paul responded with mock seriousness, "but I thought we would chat a bit first."

"Not you," Marisol sank down beside him and gave him a playful shove.

"Getting handsy already are you?" Paul teased, shoving her back. They grappled playfully for a minute, giggling, until he dipped his head and nibbled at a spot just behind her ear, making her skin tingle all over. She let out a gasp and he lifted his head, watching her as if gauging her reaction.

"That tickled," she said, sounding breathless. She averted her eyes under his heated gaze, wondering what he expected from her tonight, here, in her grandmother's sitting room, with the dogs watching. In her lap Paul's hand clasped hers, his thumb making lazy circles across her knuckles.

"So..." She leaned back against the cushions, trying to collect her thoughts and slow things down a bit while her pulse pounded in her ears. "So when you were playing guitar, I noticed you're a lefty."

"I am." He leaned back next to her, their eyes locked and their heads almost touching.

"So is my brother. I always heard left-handed people are more creative. And good multi-taskers."