In Your Atmosphere (Paul McCartney/Beatles Fanfiction)

Chapter 28 - California Dreamin'

"It gets cold at night here?" Paul asked.

"Yeah. Big temperature drop when the sun goes behind the mountains."

Paul found a pile of wood in the yard behind the fireplace and lifted an axe, weighing it in his hands. In a John Wayne voice he said, "Just saw you have some wood here, little lady, you want I should split it for ya?"

"Knock yourselves out. You can pretend to be Canadian, eh? Just don't hurt yourselves." The dogs began sniffing around their empty water dish and Marisol carried it over to an outdoor spigot.

Paul and Neil were soon happily swinging away, taking turns with the axe. Paul hooted when he got into the rhythm and split a log in one swing. "Did you see that, Mar? Manliness and grace in action, that's what this is."

"I like the 'CHK' sound the axe makes when it splits the wood," Neil said.

"I feel so American right now it hurts," Paul said. "I'm a modern Abe Lincoln."

Neil finished his soda and set it on a patio table. "Where is your loo?"

"I'll show you." Marisol looked at Paul over her shoulder. "Don't hurt yourself, Paul Bunyan."

In the kitchen, Marisol's mother wanted to consult with her about dinner plans, and when Neil came out of the bathroom, Marisol's father had returned from his trip into town. He remembered Neil from many visits to England, and they began to chat. Ten minutes passed before Marisol started to worry about Paul, and then the front doorbell rang.

Her father threw open the door, with Marisol close behind.

Her mouth dropped open. Paul stood on the threshold, sweaty, breathing hard and holding an axe. Paul and her father stared at each other for about five seconds.

"Who the hell are you, some kind of serial killer?" her father demanded.

Paul must have panicked, because at the point where he should have said, "Oh hey, I'm Paul," he dropped the axe right on his foot and said something like, "Oh hey ow shit!"

Marisol ducked around her father. "Daddy, this is Paul, he was just trying to help."

"How so? By bleeding all over the porch?"

"Paul, this is my Dad," Marisol continued.

Her father made a harrumph noise before turning away. "Come in then, but park your weapon on the porch." Paul and Marisol were left standing in the doorway.

What are you doing? She tried to convey the message to Paul with her eyes, wide and disbelieving.

"The back door was locked, Mari, what the fuck?" Paul whispered.

"How about a drink, Daughter?" Marisol's father headed into the den, a masculine room with wooden beams, floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and a wet bar in the corner. "Don't be stingy with the whiskey, I don't care what your mother says."

"Okay, Dad." Marisol gestured for Paul to follow and busied herself at the bar, planning to be very stingy indeed with the whiskey. Her father drunk before dinner was a bad idea.

Her father sat in his favorite easy chair, his attention fixed on Paul. "You do any hunting?"

Paul took a seat on the sofa, looking around the room, taking everything in. "I'm not much of a hunter," he admitted.

"Why the hell not?"

Paul focused on her father, an amiable look on his face. "When I was twelve, I went hunting with my dad and we shot a bird. He was laying there and something struck me. What's so fun about killing this creature who was as happy as I was when I woke up this morning?"