Chapter Text
The next day, “Paul” had to meet with his father, and then Jane. Jim knew of McCartney’s true death, but in a sense he was trying to force himself to believe his son never died. It was an unhealthy way to live, and William wasn't aware Jim already knew it. The deciders liked it that way.
When the father first walked in, he hugged him hard. He couldn't believe how closely they looked alike, almost like they could've been twins. William's birthday was 19th August, 1945, though. Now he had to remember his new birthday was in June. Studying a binder full of Paul McCartney facts seemed so unorthodox, but the imposter was trapped there, unable to change anything about the situation. Being promised fame and fortune didn't sound so bad after a while of doing so much to change himself, almost as if he had some kind of case of Stockholm syndrome. Paul's brother tagged along with Jim. He had no idea that his brother was truly dead. Jim never revealed it to him, wanting no one else to know the truth. He treated the imposter like he would his own son, and together the two spent time informing the man of old stories. It was an odd feeling for William and Jim alike, but it was the new reality for them.
An hour after Jim left, Jane was pulling in the driveway.
Jane wanted to see Paul after learning about his fate, but was never allowed to because Brian told her everyone had to wait until he was “back to himself.” He said it was for medical reasons—that he needed to heal before she saw him, that he had a lot of work that needed doing to fix the state of his appearance. He also said Paul himself requested to not be seen by anyone until he looked better. Brian explained that he knew she was abroad working on an important movie. He didn’t want to disturb her with the haunting truth, he said.
Jane entered the home nervously, knowing that Paul didn’t even remember her anymore. Still, it was the man she had loved dearly and missed to no end. She already had tears in her eyes as she approached him, and “Paul” stood to greet her.
She reached her hand up to his face, and “Paul” furrowed his brow. He allowed her to feel his cheek and felt his heart speed up as she pulled him in for a warm embrace. The lovely woman smelled like vanilla and cocoa butter, reminding him of his very own girlfriend he used to have months ago. In a dark way he enjoyed this—enjoyed having this woman by his side. It was the first connection with a woman he'd had in such a long time, and it excited him to no end. “Paul” hugged her hard as well, and during it he noticed her hair smelled even greater. “You’re so beautiful,” he told her quietly, causing the red-headed girl to cry.
“Paul, it's me. Jane… I missed you so,” she sobbed into his neck. “Please tell me you remember something about me...”
Paul shook his head. “I don't. Like I told everyone… I-I'm sorry. But… you look like someone important to me…”
*
He asked her to stay the night, and from there the two spent a while just chatting and eating small snacks. William told her fake stories about his time in the hospital, even telling her about the vocal cord surgery he actually did go through. Briefly he wondered what she would think if she knew he had the real Paul's throat and larynx transplanted into him, but he hated the way the truth made him feel—so he completely threw it away as soon as it crossed his mind.
That night, when he finally joined her in the bedroom, Jane was already curled beneath the blankets, her hair spilling across the pillow like a soft halo. She reached for him without hesitation, and he kissed her slowly—lingering, tasting, as though he didn’t want to rush anything. His mind drifted to how he used to kiss Annaliese, missing her beautiful soul. Don't get him wrong, now—Jane Asher had it all. But he and Annaliese had a deep history and bond rolled into one. He was fixing to propose to her soon, but now he'd likely never see her again. With that in mind, he pulled away, looking deeply in the actress’ eyes, seeing something foreign in them that he couldn't fully get a grasp on. God, she was too perfect for him. He didn't deserve her. Instead, he imagined this was his time to shine, that this woman before him was waiting for him to turn her on. William had to perform excellently; she needed to see what he was capable of. If his soul didn't deserve her, perhaps his body did. He'd been through a hell of a lot, and now he could actually be allowed to take his time with an extraordinary woman. The man pressed his lips to hers again, closing his eyes and pretending Annaliese was the one below him.
The way he was kissing her contrasted deeply to how Paul had always been eager before. He always dove in with an urgency that sometimes left her breathless but rarely gave her time to melt into it. Tonight, though, he was deliberate on purpose. His hands wandered slowly over her, memorizing her curves to give in to the illusion that he was rediscovering them for the first time.
They kissed again, deeper this time, and when they broke apart his forehead rested against hers. His voice was low, almost uncertain, as if he were admitting a secret. “Do you know how lucky I feel if you’re the woman who wants to marry me?”
Her breath caught. The way he said it—quiet, sincere—sent warmth flooding through her. She kissed him again, harder this time, unable to stop herself.
She noticed his slower pace without a doubt. He’s going so slow, she thought, her pulse racing. He never went this slow before… But the surprising thing was—she liked it. More than liked it. It made her feel wanted in a way she hadn’t felt for years, as though every touch had meaning. Her breath caught when his lips traced the line of her collarbone, moving lower, his pace unhurried, coaxing shivers from her skin.
William liked to take his time with a woman. He found the female orgasm to be a work of art that needed time to be perfect, not rushed and carelessly done.
When he finally entered her, it was with the same deliberate rhythm. At first, she almost wanted to urge him faster out of habit, but then the slow, steady pace began to drive her wild when he put force behind it. Each movement seemed to build, stretching out the pleasure, winding it tighter and tighter until she could hardly stand it. She clutched at his shoulders, whispering his name between gasps. With the way she moaned Paul's name, he soon learned to like the sound of it leaving her lips.
And when he finally did go faster—right near the end—it felt like a dam breaking. The release was so intense her eyes filled with tears, not from sadness but from the sheer rush of it.
Afterward, they lay tangled together, her head resting against his chest. She could feel his heart hammering beneath her ear, and she smiled in the dark.
This is better, she thought, drifting toward sleep. Whatever changed in him… I’m glad it did.
*
The next day around noon, unexpectedly, Brian came into the study to find “Paul” going through the dead man's things. Jane was in the bedroom, still sleeping. The ones in charge gave him privacy while Jane was there, which was a relief to her. To Jane, their relationship was almost brand new. This version of Paul had no memories, no memory of hurting her before by cheating. It was freeing, being able to have a second chance with him. The waiting was worth it. She slept the most soundly this day she had in many moons, all thanks to being back with the man she felt was all hers now. The slate had been somehow wiped clean, and she had no other women to compete with, because he didn’t remember them.
“I hope you find this position well and not a total loss,” the manager said. “You're adjusting great, finally. I'm happy he—well, you—are still with us.”
“He isn't,” replied the imposter. “He died. I'm here to replace him, and it feels disgusting… The one most hurt is that Lennon fella. And it—it’s like the happiest is Jane. I don't know if you've been made aware, but Paul and him were secret lovers, Brian. For me to act like I don't remember must keep him so depressed. I feel terrible.”
Brian took a seat, grabbing one of the personal journals the real Paul kept. He opened it and flipped to a random page. He silently read it.
27 March, 1965
I've been thinking, I need a holiday away from Jane. It's not that I hate her or anything, but she always pushes me. I can never just relax after a hard day. There's always a strict routine with her, if the schedule goes off track even once it seems her whole day is ruined. I can't control the weather. But I wish I could just to make her happier. Damn !!! Hate to say it, but kinda glad she's gotta work on that film of hers again. She left just yesterday!
George is coming later, he's bringing pot and we're gonna jam a bit. Have another tune in mind, but no words to it yet. That's where John comes in. He’ll be in later, hopefully in time to practice with us for just a few.
I invited Rich, but he is spending time with his lady. Family man, that one.
I miss my Johnny. We really need to get away. Need to get a bit of rest with him. Always get the best sleep when we're together.
The manager then sighed. “I really did know of their relationship. So did the other members. But that's all who knew it. We acted like it wasn't so, but we knew it was. I knew that would be the hardest to come to terms with. That's why I wanted you to find that out for yourself. And I wouldn't force you to continue that if it's not ideal for you.”
William scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Real shocker. Finally, something you lot won't force me to do.”
“You confuse me… Sometimes you enjoy it, other times you act like this is just a right tragedy.”
“Are you going to sit there and act like the way you brought me in to do this wasn't a scare tactic? I mean, to me, the whole part with John, it's something I can't stop feeling guilty about.
I'm here to take Paul's place physically, but… John is still mourning him. And that man's fiancée tells me she's the happiest she's ever been, only to have me back. But I just can't let myself enjoy it like I need to.”
Brian happily noted the interchangeable way William used “Paul” and “me” in the same sentence. It was slowly coming about—the fusing of their thoughts as one. “About John, well, it wasn't healthy anyways. They fought and made up every couple days. Jane was always the better choice. Not the best for John, but let me worry about him. I'll get him out of that state of mind. I promise. You do what is best for Paul.”
“I—really, I don't care if it was healthy or not… I know that feeling. I miss my girlfriend, too. I can trick myself into thinking I'm with her with the lights out and me eyes closed, but Liese thinks I'm dead… When I last saw her, I told her I'd see her again in just a few weeks. Never knew this all would be the case.” The man sounded exactly like Paul in speaking that part that Brian had to look to the floor to keep himself from reacting too noticeably.
“Lad, look… I-I'm sorry. This is just how it is. How it has to be. Think of what you can accomplish as Paul McCartney. You are him, he is you. There is no William, only Paul. When you're looking at your substantial bank account, don't feel anything less than important, Paul.”
“Paul” felt tears spill down his cheeks. “But I keep remembering what I wanted to accomplish as William.”
The manager sighed. It was very hard for him to keep up the act, because Brian knew William was right deep down. However, with all this happening and it being televised on the news, the manager had been told that recently their record sales were up greatly due to the publicity with Paul's accident. “With all due respect, you as William were nothing. You were a nobody. Paul is a public figure. He mattered to millions. I'll tell you what—let's make an appearance in public. Let them see you through their eyes. Everyone misses you, Paul. You need to understand just how much you mean to them.”
Shrugging his shoulders, he knew they never gave him much choice other than what to eat or drink. And it gave him something else to study for…
*
The extravagant mirror before him didn’t recognize who was in front of it.
William sat in a dressing room that wasn’t his, under lights that made his skin look artificial. He had been caked down with foundation, and the hired stylist tugged at his hair while another man compared photographs. Nobody spoke to him like a person.
“You need to learn to smile like McCartney.” Brian said behind him, reaching his hand onto “Paul's” chest to fix his buttoned-up shirt more neatly.
He blinked. McCartney.
William wasn’t sure when he’d agreed. Maybe it was when he realized he had nowhere to go. Maybe it was when he saw how easily they’d erased Paul—how quickly a life could be deleted.
He clenched his hands in his lap.
“This has been a bloody murder. Not of the body, but of the truth.” he thought, his heart hammering as the nervousness coursed through his veins.
They were carving it into him, etching it directly into his memory—the memory of a self erased, while Paul McCartney somehow lived on. And McCartney had to be that charming man everyone once adored. He was that man now. He had to carry the weight, and bear the burden of someone already buried.
The dressing room door swung open behind the two men. “McCartney's on in 5,” said a stranger's voice. “He needs to look mostly in cameras 1 and 3.” Then the door shut.
“Now,” began Brian. “I need you to stick to the script. You have no recollection of the life you once had. You're trying to get it back by learning from everyone. Don't discuss much else, don't talk too long.”
“I know. I only went over it five hundred times.”
“Now is not the time to be smart,” Epstein sighed. “Remember, all eyes will be on you, Paul.” He said it as if he were truly talking to Paul. How could he not come to terms with McCartney really being gone? William was not Paul. He wasn't him, though they've exhausted every effort to make him be Paul.
“It's William,” he uttered slowly.
“No, it isn't.” The manager heard him. “Don't go on with that name in mind, lad.”
*
The lights were hot. Brighter than he'd expected. William blinked into the cameras, spine straight, smile measured. A lot was riding on this broadcast.
“Paul, how are you feeling?”
William paused. That name still felt like a coat a size too small—tight around the chest. But he smiled. Just like he’d seen in the tapes. That charming, boyish smirk that crinkled the eyes. He’d practiced it in the mirror so many times it now came without thinking.
“Better every day,” he said smoothly. “Still piecing everything together. But I feel… lucky. Very lucky.”
The reporter nodded, offering a sympathetic look. The audience sighed in relief.
William’s heart thudded quietly beneath his suit. He had them.
He answered the next question about songwriting with a laugh—light and quick, almost cheeky. He tilted his head just like Paul used to. He scratched his ear the way he’d seen in a dozen interviews. He tossed in a “You know, mate,” as if it were second nature.
And it was starting to feel that way. Especially with the crowd hanging on his every move. He noticed the girls squealing at a particular smirk, and the attention—it was intoxicating. This was what he needed to feel alive, to feel powerful, to feel seen in a way William never had.
It had been months. He had watched every interview, heard every isolated vocal track, memorized every twitch of the man’s face. And now he was here—not as William, but as Paul. And they believed it.
A thought bubbled up, uninvited: “Maybe I really can be him.”
Not just on camera. Not just for Brian, or the fans, or the band.
He could live it.
“They love him. They never loved me. Not like this.” he thought.
The idea curled around his brain like smoke. He straightened up, let his eyes gleam just a little. Reached into Paul’s old bag of expressions—raised brows, soft grin, shrugged shoulder—and dropped them into place like the costume of a person he was forced to be.
“I may have lost my memories,” he said to the reporter, “But the music... the music just, it never left. Not really.”
The crowd erupted in applause. William felt it wash over him, warm and thick, vibrating in his chest and echoing in his ears. Applause for Paul. But it rattled through his body too. They were right. He was him. His hands tightened slightly, heart hammering—not just from nerves, but from the rush of being adored.
And for the first time…he liked the way it felt. The public bought it. The applause was real. William could feel it echo in his chest…and he really wanted it now. Too much.
“Maybe…I am him.”