In Your Atmosphere (Paul McCartney/Beatles Fanfiction)

Chapter 36 - It's So Hard Loving You

"James, I'm so glad you're here. Can we get out of here? I'm absolutely starving."

His look was incredulous, but James followed Marisol out of the club, pausing to say something to a group of people at a table before joining her at the coat check station.

"You walked right past me, and I thought I must be losing my mind," James said when they were in the lift. "I thought you had a twin or something. Then I heard you swearing at Paul McCartney in that American accent and...bloody hell, Marisol, why were you swearing at Paul McCartney?"

"I don't know, does it really matter?" She pulled on her coat and collapsed against the wall of the lift. "God, I'm so hungry right now I think I'm going to be sick."

His brows pulled together, his gray eyes darkening as he held her gaze. "What matters is you knew I was going home to London for Christmas and you never mentioned you'd be here too." He glared at her, frowning. "Why on earth didn't you tell me you were coming to London?"

She hugged herself tightly, trying to quell the nausea. "I'll explain everything if you'll just find me some decent food."

With his hands stuffed in his pockets and a vexed look on his face, James led the way out of the lift and onto the street. He walked ahead of her, so fast she was forced to almost jog to keep up. Then at the corner, he thrust out a hand to stop her from stepping off the curb as a black taxi sped past. "For god's sake, don't be such a Yank. You do know which direction the traffic is coming from, surely."

They crossed the road when the traffic cleared, and James yanked her by the arm into a diner on the corner.

"Thank God," Marisol said, salivating over the menu. She stopped the first waitress she saw and said, "Scotch broth and bread and butter and cheese. With milk. And whatever the gentleman wants. God bless you."

"Marisol, what on earth? Are you all right?" James asked as soon as the startled waitress walked away.


"You're the second person who's asked me that in fifteen minutes."

"Do you have something you want to tell me?"

"No," she said, massaging her temples with her fingertips. She caught a whiff of the smoke that clung to her hair and grimaced. Her heightened sense of smell was another of the newfound joys of her condition. "I am glad to be away from all that smoke though."

Their drinks arrived, and Marisol gratefully took a long swig of the milk. 

James sipped his tea, his accusing gaze riveted on her. "I rarely go to clubs. My mate Pete invited me out and the birds he showed up with insisted on Leicester Square so they could spot a Beatle. I should have just rung you up and arranged for a personal meeting with the band. If I'd had a clue that you were in London. Or that you were best mates with Paul McCartney. There seems to be an awful lot I don't know about you, Marisol."

"Are you finished?"

"Yes, but you aren't. You have quite a lot to tell me."

"I will, I promise, as soon as I eat. Where is the food? What is taking so long?"

He blinked at her, understandably confused. She lowered her head onto her crossed arms, hoping James would pause the interrogation until after she'd eaten.

When the soup arrived, it was like she'd never tasted food before. "Oh my god, this is so good." She pushed the plate of bread and cheese towards James but he shook his head, watching her eat.

"No, you go ahead. I don't believe I've ever seen someone so singularly focused on Scotch broth before."

Finally sated, she pushed back the dishes and sighed contentedly, her hands resting on her stomach. She looked around the diner at last. It was bustling with night shift workers and club-goers, one of the few places open this late. It was time to face the inevitable talk with James, but not here. "All right then. Let's take a walk and have a talk."