Chapter Text
This wasn't the first time she'd seen a Beatle-- in London, 1966, it wasn't exactly unheard of. But it might well have been the first time she'd seen just one by himself.
John Lennon approached her as she wheeled an empty luggage cart down the hall. She politely avoided eye contact, having heard enough stories about the young men being mobbed by fans in hotels, often enough by people dressed as staff. But he stopped in front of the cart, called out to get her attention.
He had a job for her.
In a low, slightly rushed voice, he explained that Bob Dylan was just outside in a car, full to spilling with booze and acid, and as soon as their road manager could convince him to get up, he'd be returning to their hotel room. He wasn't a danger to himself or others, John insisted, but his trip was starting to go a bit sour, and he needed to be watched. And bathed, he'd added blithely. Needs a fucking bath, about five days ago. No shame or apology in it.
She'd asked, boldly, why John couldn't play nursemaid. His friend; his room, after all.
"'Cause I'd strangle him," John said, giving a smile that didn't even reach his cheeks. "And I need a kip." He reached into his inner jacket pocket and produced a clean bundle of folded bills. "Can you help me, or not?"
A month's wages, held carelessly, almost disainfully, in his right hand. She took them without a fuss. "At your service." Her ten-years-younger self might have saluted.
"Good girl. That way." He nodded by way of pointing, and she followed, leaving the baggage cart behind.
His room was around the corner, on the other side of the building. Not secluded or anything, but it was anyone's guess whether Dylan would find his way up, in the state John described. She had other people to worry about that for her. To no one's surprise, they'd scored one of the big rooms. One of those that made her thank God she was just a porter, and not a maid. A suite. It had a lounge and a kitchenette, with the beds and bath in an adjoining room.
John kicked off his shoes in the doorway, flung his jacket at the sofa, and disappeared into the bedroom. A great groaning sigh and the creak of mattress springs told her he'd given in to the bed.
She poked her head around the corner, anxious to catch him before he fell asleep. "When is Dylan going to be up?" she asked.
"When he wants," John said to the wall. He flipped over and adjusted, wriggling to get comfortable. "When he's ambulatory." He cleared his throat. His closed eyes told her she should get a move on. Removing her own shoes, she padded into the en-suite. It had a claw-foot tub that could fit two people modestly and three intimately. Again, she was glad she didn't have to clean it.
A bottle of forest-green gel sat nestled alongside the shampoo and conditioner. Bubble bath. She eyed it thoughtfully. Would Dylan like bubbles, she wondered, or were they too un-bohemian? She flipped the lid and gave a sniff. It smelled of pine needles, sharp and clean. Maybe too stimulating for a lysergic high...?
Fuck it, she decided, They're getting what they paid for. Luxury. She plugged the drain, switched on the hot tap, and dumped a generous helping of bubble bath into the roaring waterfall. Great fluffy piles of foam began to grow, but the tub was huge. It would take forever to fill. She wagered she had enough time to leave it unattended for a few moments.
When she tiptoed out through the bedroom, John's breathing was heavy and unguarded, just short of snoring. She cracked the door just a sliver to look up and down the hallway.
It was empty.
She rolled her eyes and shut the door. There was a chance, she thought, greater than zero, that she'd be taking home a month's paycheque in cash for nothing. For running a bath for nobody. Nowhere Man, don't worry, she would have hummed if not for the sleeping Beatle in the next room, Take your time, don't hurry, leave it all 'til somebody else lends you a hand, ah-la-la-la-la.
The doorknob rattled, and she froze. She thought she heard a voice, then the handle rattled again, followed by a knock. As quickly as she could while trying to make no sound, she ran back to the door and looked through the peephole.
It was Bob Dylan, sporting sunglasses indoors. And knocking, again.
"John?" he said.
She opened the door, and even behind his dark lenses, she could see his eyes widen. "Come in," she quickly said, before he could say anything loud enough to rouse his roommate. "John's asleep. I'm here to watch over you."
"John's asleep, Bobby," John announced from the other room, and she winced. Too loud already.
"I'm sorry, man," Bob shouted back. "I'm sorry," he added, addressing her in what was probably supposed to be a whisper, touching his lip as if to shush himself.
"It's all right," she said in an actual whisper. "This way." She placed a hand on his forearm, trying to gently herd rather than pull him. Luckily, he followed without resistance. He smelled keenly of at least two kinds of smoke, but he lacked the beat-poet funk that John's description had planted in her mind. Frankly, based on his account, she'd expected flies.
Based on his hair alone, however, he was getting a bath.
Before they reached the bathroom, Bob sank onto the unoccupied bed and buried his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes behind his sunglasses.
"Are you all right?" she asked softly, careful to keep the worry out of her voice.
"I feel sick, man, I feel really..." Bob shook his head, slowly, as if any faster would dislodge his glasses or his lunch. "Ah...man."
"Y'okay, Bobby?" John had propped himself up on one elbow to watch. His expression was neutral, but she could tell he was putting it on, too. A young parent whose kid's just tripped and fallen, afraid to let his worry bleed through and allow the kid to believe he's really hurt. A drinker who's dealt with other drunks.
Bob frowned hard, still rubbing his eyes, seemingly unable to massage out the ache. "I never throw up. I never throw up. I mean. There've been times, I've been...really..."
At the words throw up, she and John made frantic eye contact. When Bob lost the power of speech altogether, panic gave way to action. She lay her hands on his arm and back. "Can you come to the bathroom?" Faux-casual, easy, only if you want.
Bob stood slowly, gingerly, with her guidance, and both made it to the bathroom without incident. He lowered himself to the ground next to the toilet, still in his jacket and boots.
She lifted the seat to give him a bigger target, even earning a sluggish "Oh, thanks," when she slipped his sunglasses off his ears and set them by the sink. It was too soft, airy, the weak speech of someone whose head is spinning faster with every disturbance. She rubbed his back, a quick stroke of the thumb to say You're welcome, and spared a glance over her shoulder at the tub. Just a little over half-full. Too many bubbles, but there was nothing she could do about that now.
His shoulders lurched suddenly, and she rushed to gather his unruly hair into something resembling a ponytail. She didn't know if it was long enough to get in the way, but as she'd be the one to deal with the consequences if it was, she erred on the side of caution. He emptied his stomach twice, nearly silently, before he found breath enough to cough fitfully and spit into the bowl.
She pulled the handle to flush as he spat, rubbing long, smooth strokes up and down his back. She could feel his spine and ribs through two layers. Never mind a bath; the man needed a stack of pancakes. But that's not what she was paid for. "How do you feel?"
"I'm sorry." He coughed a rasping cough.
She swept her hand across his shoulder blades, trying not to say There, there. "It's all right. Feel better now?"
Bob chuckled. "Yeah," he said, sounding half-serious. "If you like it."
She let herself smile. "Quick way to sober up?"
"Hey, I don't know what you're talkin' about, man." A grin split Bob's face as he shakily found his feet. "I'm dry as a saint." He swished around a cup of mouthwash from the bottle by the sink. "I am the poster boy for...temperance."
She didn't think to dignify that with a response. So he wasn't stumbling drunk, but he would do well not to operate heavy machinery. In any case, he still needed a bath. If not more so, now. She switched off the tap. The water was barely visible through the bubbles, looming like an ice shelf in the Arctic. She hoped, for his sake, it was warmer.
When she turned back, he was leaning against the basin, staring vaguely into the opposite corner with a slight squint. She couldn't contain her curiosity. "Are you getting visions?"
Bob blinked and turned his attention back to her. "Am I getting...visuals?" He gave a short laugh. "Not, like...little green men." His hand scuttled across his line of vision, illustrating the path of a space alien. "Or, Alice through the looking glass."
"Then?" She tested the water. It was a touch too hot. It'd be perfect by the time he decided to go in.
He shook his head. "It's like. Everything is...Hey, man." It was as if, mid-sentence, he'd realized she was there, truly seen her for the first time, and it set him to giggling. "I don't come here and ask you what you're doin' in here." He pointed, cornered, trying to pin her down too.
"I'm here for whatever you need." As if for emphasis, she plucked a white towel from the rod. "Until John wakes up." She hoped he'd forget waking John up. With any luck, he was back asleep by now.
Bob eyed the towel, then the foaming tub. "'S that for me? Am I supposed to get in that?"
She held his gaze. "If you like it."
"Well, that's-- mighty kind of you," he said, too methodically, closing his eyes against a bashful smile. She could almost hear his brain racing to keep up with his mouth. "Very...thoughtful. There's that, good old British hospitality you're so famous for." He shrugged off his jacket, dropped it on the floor, and got to work on his shirt buttons.
She looked away, though she couldn't say why. Soon she was going to earn her supper by scrubbing him in places that never saw the light of day, and yet, it just felt the polite thing to do. Call it British hospitality. British something, at any rate.
Bob muttered something under his breath, and she almost turned by instinct, but she remained dutifully facing the bath.
"Come on."
She couldn't help whipping around. But he hadn't been addressing her. He was looking almost straight down, fumbling with the topmost button, too close to his jaw to see from above. With every failed attempt, he looked more amused, until he was giggling, "Hey, man, you wanna try your luck? I can't--"
She was feeling lucky today.
Unclasping the top button was mindlessly easy, of course, but she did her best not to spring it free too quickly.
"Did you get 'em all?" Bob asked, staring off.
Oh. Well...no, she hadn't. For some reason. Christ, what was John paying her for? She set to work at once unfastening the rest (too many buttons for a man's shirt, if you asked her), and lifted the sides gently apart to let him feel she was done.
Apparently, it wasn't enough to spark his attention. His head was tipped back, his lips parted. His eyes were barely shut, with lashes fluttering.
"Bobby," she murmured.
"Huh," he said, uninterrupted from his trance.
As yet unseen, she sank to her knees. "You can't get in the bath with these on," she said, curling her hands loosely around his ankles.
Bob almost started. He looked down, eyes wide, and met hers, staring innocently up at him.
Now she had his undivided attention.
Her hands slid down the crowns of his feet and began untying his laces. "You'll ruin them." They were fine boots, too: black leather, pointy-toed, with a smart little heel.
Bob breathed a sigh that sounded like a laugh. He covered his mouth with his right palm, bending his wrist so that his fingers cupped his right cheek. "Drivin' me crazy," he emerged to mutter, a grin obvious in his voice. "You don't know-- don't know what you're doin'."
She smiled but didn't answer, lifting one foot and then the other to pull the boots over his heels. He obliged lazily: she rolled his socks down, he let her slip them off. It felt right to stand up his boots, line them up like two little soldiers, with his socks and jacket folded beside them. Maybe she should be a maid, she thought. Learn to fold towels into little swans, leave chocolate mints about. It was only right that his shirt get the same treatment. When she stood to take it from him, his gaze followed her up, peering intensely at her over his hand.
She held his lapels. "May I?"
He dropped his hand. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go ahead an'...Please." He went all but limp as she slid his sleeves down his arms, his eyes falling shut when the fabric rustled over his skin. Something he'd taken was making him extraordinarily receptive to touch, she guessed. Goosebumps rose all up and down his thin arms, and across his pale chest. "Wow," he said softly.
"Cold?" she asked, adding his neatly folded shirt to the pile.
Bob shook his head. "No, not really." His hands hovered over his arms, moving up and down as if to rub them. "It's like a million little birds. Now doesn't that sound pretty stupid?" he added, opening his eyes and cracking a sheepish smile. He was blushing hard. It was turning his neck and chest pink in watercolor splotches.
She shrugged. "I don't think so."
"Hey," he laughed, "my ego's not so fragile. You don't have to be gentle with me. Okay?"
Instead of answering, she gripped his belt buckle and looked at him for permission.
"Wha-- whoa." Bob looked at the ceiling, his head tipping back. She could see his throat working, breathing harder, swallowing.
The bubble bath was losing heat. "May I?" she asked.
Bob coughed out a laugh. "Hey, man, don't stop on my account."
So she didn't. She unfastened the buckle and pulled, careful not to yank too fast. The belt was serpentine, hissing and slithering through the loops. And apparently, it was doing the brunt of the work keeping his heavy slacks above his narrow hips, because they fell a few centimeters once the belt was free, the hems landing on his ankles.
When she went for the button and zipper, he covered his mouth again, but not quite in time to swallow a whining hum, just higher than his normal speaking voice. She bit down on a smile and pulled the zipper all the way down, revealing a sliver of white cotton. With her fingers hooked through his belt loops, she drew his slacks down around his ankles and lifted his feet out.
A shiver went through Bob. He gripped the sink behind him for an anchor.
She folded his slacks and turned, still kneeling, now face-to-face with the heavy shape of his cock through his shorts. Straining hard against the front with a little damp spot at the tip, turning the white cotton grey.
Well...he was going to be clean first, before she explored that any further. She reached for his waistband and--
"Let me do that."
She stood, nearly jumped to her feet at the suddenness of Bob's voice. He had both hands in front of him, doing next to nothing to hide how hard he was.
"You don't want to see that," he said, smiling, his flush deepening. "I look a lot better with all my clothes on."
It wasn't true, of course. Dylan had a starving-artist figure, but he wasn't skin and bone. He had a fine, willowy shape, and nothing to complain about below the waist. But she understood. "Of course," she said, moving to the side of the tub and demurely turning her head. She waited until she heard a splash and a surprised hiss before she turned around to find Bob up to his shoulders in bubbles. They'd diminished some since she turned off the tap. "Too hot?" she asked.
"No, no, no, it's perfect." He rested his head on the slanted back of the tub and absent-mindedly patted the bubbles as though trying to shape them into a sand castle. "I'll tell you, I haven't had a bath like this in...God knows how long. Too long, man. Too long." He inhaled deeply through his nose, and she could picture the pine scent filling his head with kaleidoscopic needles and cones. "Wow," he breathed.
She smiled. "I'm glad you like it," she said, kneeling on the bathmat and reaching across the bubbles to fetch the bottle of shampoo. "Can you wet your hair for me, love?"
Bob obediently dipped his head back, effectively disappearing in foam. She swept the bubbles away from his face until the water surrounding his head was clear. Under the water, his hair was jet black, and it fanned out around his head like a mane. He looked so blissful, so peaceful, she hardly dared ask him to raise his head. Instead, she stroked his cheek with the side of one finger. A breath fell from his lips as though knocked out of him, and his brow knit together. She could have laughed--his ears were under the water. He couldn't hear himself.
Behind her, someone coughed and sniffed, and she whirled around.
John stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He raised his eyebrows and ducked his head while glancing at Bob, as if to say, How about that one, then?
She heaved a deep breath as the initial shock left her, and returned his gesture. How about that.
John looked at the bath a moment longer, then frowned curiously and mouthed something as he dragged a finger across his throat. Is he dead?
She blinked and calmly shook her head no. She tapped her ear: Listen. After making sure Bob's ears were still submerged, she traced a line down both his cheeks, trailing her nails over his face on the way back up.
Bob gasped and sighed it back out just as quickly, letting a moan creep into his voice.
John's lips tightened. She saw him fight to bring his expression under control, but not soon enough that she could miss the glint in his eye, the way his nostrils flared. "Naughty," he said, low but not whispered, dripping with an exaggerated Scouse drawl.
She blinked rapidly, wide-eyed, the picture of innocence. Whatever could he be implying? She tapped Bob's forehead gently, three times, and cupped a hand below his head to help him break the surface. The bathtub faced away from the door, and as he sat up, dripping, he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.
He couldn't see John.
"Oh...man," Bob said heavily, rubbing soapy water out of his eyes. "How long was I under there, man, I was somewhere else for a while."
"Not long," she said. "Ready for shampoo?"
"Yeah." Bob finished rubbing his eyes but didn't open them. "I wish I had this kinda thing growing up. My family, we-- I grew up in Minnesota," he spat more than said. "You know where that is? Middle of nowhere. My family used to bathe in, we used to all have to use the same big metal washtub, one after the other. And I went last," he laughed-- lightly, from his head and not his chest.
She had grown up with no running water and an outdoor toilet, but she didn't deign to bring that up just now. "I'm pouring the shampoo now," she narrated, and squeezed a dollop of pearly white stuff onto the top of his head.
"They used to throw me out with the bathwater. I wa-- hhah-hh." The second she started massaging his hair, his voice gave out and wilted into a breathless sigh. His head moved with her, and so did his moans, spilling out of him like she was pushing them out of his chest. She scratched his scalp indulgently, threaded through his knotted curls until she worked out the tangles, and he whimpered.
She looked back at John. He performed on cue, fluttering his lashes and rolling his eyes back as he pretended to swoon against the doorframe, like a romance heroine with heaving bosoms. When he composed himself, she smiled and turned her focus back to Bob. "Rinse," she said.
With her hand at the back of his head, Bob slowly dipped back under the water to let her do just that. He even gave a surprised little noise when she combed her fingers through his hair again to ensure all the shampoo washed out. After a few moments' rest--he did look so relaxed down there--she raised his head once more, pressing her hands in a seal against his forehead to prevent residual shampoo from dripping into his eyes. "You're doing very well, Bob," she said quietly, though not so quiet John couldn't hear her.
"I'm doing well?" Bob said, somewhat dazedly. "You're doin' some magic or somethin', that's what you're doin'. With your hands, and your..." He trailed off. And my what? she wondered. She hadn't been touching him with anything but her hands. Where else was she in his perception of reality? And doing what?
"Time to wash," she said, before he could clarify. The bubbles had continued to dissipate, and she could now see as far as his chest. "Is the water warm enough?" She plucked the soap from its dish, wet her hands, and worked up a rich layer of suds.
"Yeah, it's great."
"Lovely." She started behind his ears.
Immediately, he began panting again, practically fighting for breath, but his moans of pleasure didn't become vocal until she reached his neck, rubbing under his jaw and over his throat. A small wave splashed the side of the tub as his back arched and relaxed.
"Does that feel good, Bobby?" she asked. She spread soap over his shoulders, his collarbone.
"Yes," he said, hushed, prayerful. "Baby, it's so good, you don't know. Just...Oh, come on, babe, please."
Keep going was his plea, she guessed. Then she heard a sound behind her, a low, buzzing growl of metal against metal. The sound of someone unzipping excruciatingly slowly. Next, a crinkle of fabric, and John's breath caught. To his credit, it was so quiet, it was almost genteel. She didn't turn around. Let him think she hadn't noticed.
She rolled up her sleeves and re-lathered her hands in preparation to do Bob's chest. It only took a moment to realize her blouse didn't roll up far enough to keep her sleeves dry and give him a decent wash, no matter how careful she was. The whole thing would have to go. Instead of wasting time on buttons, she crossed her arms and pulled it over her head from the hem. This, she didn't bother to fold.
John took a sharp breath through his nose. If she listened very, very hard, she could hear the whispering hiss of skin sliding against skin. A guitarist's callused hand, she would have bet, against incredibly soft skin. Slowly, slowly.
She thought it was time to drown it out.
Removing her blouse had wiped all the soap off her hands, so she filled them with suds once more and ran both hands down Bob's chest.
Bob shuddered, and his exposed skin erupted in goosebumps again. "Yeah. Yeah. That's real good. Keep touchin' me, babe, you're so good. Oh...God. Baby, I need you."
She felt along his ribs, sinking past her elbows in the still-warm bathwater, and turned to look John straight in the eye. He stiffened, caught in the headlights, but he didn't try to hide what he was doing, or take his hand out of his trousers. Or stop. She stroked Bob's sides again, stopping just short of his hips, and let his moans, whimpers, and babys fill the air.
John's Irish complexion was blotted scarlet. His jaw was trembling.
She turned away from him and dove lower.
Bob groaned, twitched up his hips, blindly chasing her touch. His body rolled like water, every move made smooth by his lingering high and his new euphoria. He was pleading. Begging.
When her hand wrapped around the base of his cock, he practically sobbed. Words stopped, replaced with desperate lowing as she stroked him through the water, smooth and slick but not quick enough.
"Babe, faster, please," he managed, his words choked with need, "I want it so bad, please, you gotta..."
"Like this?" She sped up almost imperceptibly, too slow and loose to give him what he wanted, but enough to string him out, edge him ever closer.
"Y-Yea- mmm." Before he could finish, she'd cradled his jaw with her free hand, tilting his head back to rest on her bare shoulder.
"Like this, baby?" Now she was tossing him off good and proper, ungently.
"Baby--!" he started to cry, but it dissolved into senseless ecstasy when she grabbed a fistful of his curls and yanked. She saw his spine stiffen, felt him throb, and kept working him through her fist.
She turned to John, just in time to see his eyes shut tight, a heavy wrinkle in his brow and a fist pressed cruelly over his mouth as he, too, went rigid and then boneless, shaking, barely able to stand in the aftermath of it.
She slowed and stopped.
Bob was panting exhaustedly, and she was surprised to find that she was, too. To ease them both, she scratched his scalp again, not teasingly, but tenderly. His hair had almost dried back into curls.
John zipped, and she turned, following the sound. His shoulders rose and fell with each labored breath. He was flushed, bleary-eyed, like he'd been crying. He raised his chin in a half-nod when he caught her looking and mouthed, Cheers. She dipped her head in recognition, somewhere between a nod and a bow.
"Oh, my god," Bob groaned, muffled by his hands as he gave his face a good rub, then lay back to rest against the tub. "You never get hotels like this in America."
Smiling, she turned to John, who was busy stuffing two cigarettes in his mouth. He lit both and handed one to her, leaning on the doorway to puff on the other. She accepted it with a silent Thank you, took a good drag, and placed it between Bob's parted lips.
He latched on almost unconsciously and sat up. "Oh, hey, thanks, man. Wow." A short spell of coughing shook his slender shoulders, but after a few pulls, he recovered. "You're really somethin', you know?" He exhaled and passed the cigarette back to her. "You really know how to show a man a good time."
She knew.
"Bathtime's over," she said, reaching for her shirt with a smile.