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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.

Chapter Text

With her blouse under one arm, she stood and walked over to the other end of the bath. As she bent down, reaching into the water to yank the plug from the drain, she realized she was flashing John some pretty bold cleavage. So far he'd only seen her topless from the back.

To be fair, she'd been in the middle of tossing off his friend and colleague in a bathtub at the time, while John himself had a nice little wank at the whole scene, so it seemed kind of silly to get all precious about modesty now. She squeezed her upper arms to the sides of her chest as she pulled the chain, just because. She even thought about trying to snap up with a bounce when she straightened, but that was starting to exceed her pay grade a bit.

Bob would have had a view to rival even John's-- if he'd had his eyes open, that is-- but he was lazing against the back-rest looking half asleep, his cheek in his hand as he smoked. He didn't seem to notice that the water level was gradually sinking, leaving tiny suds on his skin as more of his pale, bony chest was exposed. Only after his nipples met the suddenly-cool air did a slight, goosebump-raising shiver compel him back to the present time and place.

"So that's it?" he said, blinking his eyes open. "You're kickin' me out? After all the good times we had together?"

She pulled her blouse back over her head. She hadn't been able to avoid wetting her sleeves in the effort to bathe him, and the bunched ends dragged cold against her forearms. "You're clean, aren't you?" she said, wiping her hands on her skirt.

"Oh." Bob exhaled smoke and passed her the cigarette. "Far from it."

She almost said, Really? before she realized he was making a dirty joke. And that the bathwater was full of his come. Oh, by the way. She'd rinse him down once before towelling him off. Christ. She took a drag and passed it back, then threw John a look to see if he was quicker on the uptake.

That was another thing. John was still there. He should go, shouldn't he? Wouldn't want Bob to see he was there all along.

Would he?

John caught her staring and made a show of looking over his shoulder at the empty room behind him. Finding no one, he raised his eyebrows expectantly. What?

She opened her mouth, then shook her head. Nothing. They were a pair, these two.

"Um," said Bob. The water was down to his navel now, and receding.

"I'll look away." She rested the towel on the rim of the tub and started to turn.

"Oh, no, it's all right, I don't...you don't have to, I, I don't really mind so much." He was talking a little fast. A little faster than he could keep up with.

She grinned at John, who was obviously trying hard not to smile. "All right."

John craned his neck, as though he could see into the tub from where he stood in the doorway. How big? he mouthed, holding his thumb and forefinger a half-foot apart.

She rolled her eyes.

John gaped in disbelief, stretching out his hands to leave two feet of space between them, like he was telling a fisherman's tale.

She nearly giggled at that, but instead she bit her lip and made a swatting motion to tell him to come off it.

John frowned, reconsidering. He pinched his fingers together by his eye, leaving only a half-inch gap to squint through.

She shook her head with a scoff as the last of the water gurgled down the drain. Truthfully, she wasn't even looking. He'd felt pretty big in her hand, but that said more about the size of her hand than anything else.

Although...

Suppose there was a freckle, or a curve to the left, or something, that she could carry in her mind as infallible proof of their encounter. Not that she was about to go running to the magazines with it, mind you. But it couldn't hurt to know for sure.

She looked.

By this time, Bob was starting to hunch with cold, curling in on himself and hugging his arms and effectively blocking her view of his prick. Oh, well. You can touch, but you can't look.

She breathed deeply, not quite allowing herself a real sigh. "Would you like to rinse off?"

"Rinse?" He looked at her. "Yeah. That'd be nice."

Good, she thought, because you're getting a rinse regardless of how you feel about it. The tub was equipped with a detachable showerhead, so she freed it from the hook and switched on the water. Once it started running hot, she held it above him, lazily flicking her wrist to catch all the stray foam and whatever else lingered behind.

Bob was shivering harder now, likely feeling the cold air's bite even sharper in contrast with the warm water falling unevenly on him. His breathing was a bit gaspy, like he was trying not to give in to full, deep shuddering. She couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy. Maybe if the man had an ounce of fat on his body, he could handle a little cold. In any case, he was clean now; as far as she could stretch that word.

With a renewed sense of urgency to dry him off before he contracted pneumonia, she turned off the water, replaced the shower head, and held his towel open before her. "Ready?"

"Yes, ma'am," Bob said before bracing his hands on the rim of the tub and straining to get up. Before he was fully upright, he faltered, one heel sliding on the tub's slippery surface, and her heart caught in her throat. Even John made to lunge for him, his expression briefly falling, but Bob caught himself before he could dash his brains on the porcelain basin.

She swallowed against a wave of nausea and an ugly prickling in her skin, her body's clumsy reaction to disaster suddenly averted before it had begun. "Steady," she muttered. Her eyes darted about for the cigarette, but a fine trail of wet ash leading to the drain told her Bob had dropped it before she'd even finished letting the water out.

A wad of bills weighed heavy in her pocket. She could buy another box.

"There you are," she said, draping the white towel around his shoulders.

Bob hugged it to his body like a cloak. It hung just low enough in back to preserve his modesty, which was just her luck. He didn't look terribly callipygian through the cloth, true, but she might have liked to check.

As Bob turned around to face her, he buried his face in the towel, giving light hums while rubbing his eyes. "'S cold," he said, muffled. He emerged and gazed pinkly at her, but his eyes flew open when he saw they weren't alone. "I wish I-- Shit, man. John."

"Hullo, Bob," John said, low and slow, never serious.

She waited without a sound to see if there was about to be a problem, but Bob, seeming to have caught his breath, only chuckled. "Scared me."

She exhaled. They were over that hurdle. Now maybe, with their triple combined efforts, they could get him dry and dressed.

"I was just leaving," John said. To show he meant it, he stood from his lean against the doorway.

"No, hey, man, I don't care." Bob sounded borderline disgusted that John would suggest him to be such a prude. "You've seen me like this before, we've all...We're both men." He ended on such a confident note, she wondered if he wasn't about to do something foolhardy.

"I can see that," John said flatly.

"Can you? Hey, you don't mind, do you?" he added to her. He'd started to loosen the towel, held together at his chest and falling off his shoulders.

"Not at all."

"Yeah, she doesn't mind." He unwrapped the towel and began quickly drying his chest and long, slender limbs. "Long as you don't think less of me," he added on the edge of a shy chuckle.

She looked his whole body over, and she didn't care that John saw her do it. "Now why would I?"

"I d'know." Once he finished drying his legs, Bob straightened and fastened the towel around his waist. "I guess, like...Hey, you know Johnny Cash?"

She hesitated, which gave John room to sing "Love...is a burning thing," in a deep baritone tinged with what was probably supposed to be an American accent.

Bob laughed. "Yeah, that's it. You ever seen 'im, John? He's hung like, I mean it's ridiculous, man, he's like..." With more care than he had taken earlier to stand up, Bob stepped over the rim of the tub and found his footing on the bathmat. "And his girl-- you know? Not his wife, but the other-- the little one. You know?"

"June Carter," John helpfully supplied.

"June Carter, June Carter. And she's this tiny-- this tiny little thing, I feel bad for her, man, like..." Bob looked back and forth between her and John, seeming to worry that he was losing his audience. "Don't you?"

She opened her mouth without the foggiest notion what she was going to say, but by the grace of God, John spoke. "Because of Johnny's--"

"Yeah," said Bob, lifting one side of the towel to paw at his half-dried hair.

"--wedding tackle?" John said, padding the words with ironic emphasis to keep whatever he was really thinking out of his voice.

"Yeah, man. I feel bad for her." Bob sat on the edge of the tub. "Doesn't it hurt?" he asked her, causing her heart to skip a beat.

"You can't ask her that, Bobby," John said. Her heart swelled at his attempt to defend her privacy, despite. Well. But she could handle it.

"Nah, John, she's cool, she's all right, man," Bob said adamantly, shaking his head. "She..." He lost the end of his sentence to a quiet bout of laughter and began again, somewhat more timidly, "Hey, how long were you there, anyway?"

"Me?" John said after a beat of silence.

"Yeah, you."

John glanced at her, and she nodded subtly.

"Oh, I got here just in time for the shampoo," he said, easy.

"Oh, my god." Leaning over with the weight of the news, Bob dug the pads of his fingers into his eyes.

"Don't feel bad, Bob, it was a killer show," said John, which frankly didn't help their case, she thought.

"--fuckin' kiddin' me, man," Bob said after mumbling into his fingers. "You people. At least George got applause."

John actually laughed.

"When George Harrison-- you know, his George," Bob explained professorially, "when he slept with a girl for the first time, it was in Hamburg. Germany. And they were all, all of them in the room, and they all cheered for him. 'N clapped." He flashed a huge grin. "When he finished. Did you know that?"

She knew that. "I didn't know that."

"Yeah, well." He raised his voice slightly, addressing her but glancing sidelong at John. "'Round here, you got a lot tougher crowds."

I'd have clapped, but my hands were full, she didn't say. Something about a tough crowd.

"Have you got any other clothes?" John asked, sounding like he wanted to move on. She took this as her cue to gather his old ones--neatly folded-- and his black boots.

Bob pointed vaguely. "Yeah, out in the wardrobe thing."

"I'll get them," she offered. Bathtub handjobs came and went, but to style Bob Dylan was a uniquely attractive opportunity.

"Thank you," said Bob, "that's kind of you." He was sagging against the tub and starting to look like he could use a nap more than John.

"I'll show you," John piped, sounding unusually helpful. Odd. How many wardrobes could there be in the place? Unless he was just trying to get away from their charge, which she could understand.

When John closed the bathroom door behind them and cast a long look at it over his shoulder, though, she did wonder. She clutched Bob's clothes to her chest, trying to prepare for whatever may come.

John took a deep breath. "About that," he said in a hushed tone, leaning in to be heard.

She didn't mirror him. "Perfectly all right," she said stiffly. "You did pay me quite handsomely." And if you want anything more, it'll have to be downright gorgeous.

"Yeah, well, I was hoping you'd let us pay you a bit more." His arms were crossed, not from a place of authority, but one of nerves.

She swallowed. "Bit more?"

He shifted his weight, but his expression was still one of practiced nonchalance. "Just thought you'd want Bob to return the favor."

Come again?

She was silent, and that didn't sit well with John at all. "He'll do it, you know. He's mad for you. You heard him. Howling like a bloody cat. And it's only right," he added, too casually.

God help her, she was actually considering it. To hide the mental battle that was probably showing on her face, she crossed the room to the wardrobe and opened the doors.

"I don't mean a shag, y'know," he said, following her. "It'd be just you getting off. He'd-- however you want."

Her hands shook as she pushed aside wire hangers, shuffled through houndstooth suit jackets. She wanted to say yes.

"He's a wizard on the mouth organ," John said, and that made her turn around.

"Beg your pardon?"

"Plays it like it's life and death." There was a little spark of wildness in John's eyes, small as they looked without his glasses. "You know how you play a mouth organ?"

She shook her head and returned to the clothes. Maybe he was still high, too. "I'm afraid n--"

"With yer tongue."

She froze.

A smile started to creep into John's voice. He knew he had her; he must know. "He's like a dancer with it, Bob. You've got to be. All quick, gentle, like." It hung in the air, but he didn't need to say any more.

She slipped a black turtleneck off the hanger and draped it over her arm without looking at John. "You seem to have given this a great deal of thought."

It was a toothy grin that shaped John's words now. "Well, I used to play the mouth organ too, y'see."

She bit down on her lower lip and added a pair of flared trousers to the pile, dark with light pinstripes. "Oh?"

"He'll blow your mind, love."

It was all she could do to keep a sigh from spilling out of her. She spun around and demanded, "And if he doesn't?" She wanted to kick herself as soon the words left her lips; she should have said If he didn't. That was much more hypothetical. Much less...desperate.

"I'll kick his head in and you get double," John said straight away. "Or--" He swallowed whatever he was going to say next, and smoothed his face over as though he hadn't cut himself off.

She blinked. "Or?"

"Or both," he said, trying to hide something in plain sight. "Deal or no?"

Could she seriously entertain the notion of turning this down?

She nodded. Deal.

John broke out in a smile that looked alarmingly hungry. "Good," he said, taking Bob's fresh clothes into his arms. Before she could reply, he gave her cheek a light tap with the back of two fingers and set about scrounging up a pair of socks and shorts. He put one hand on the doorknob, then turned back to her. "Get up on the bed," he said with a jerk of his head. "Keep your skirt on, but everything under it, off."

Good God. She was getting uncomfortably hot already. "I could do with a please," she said, trying to sound bored.

John fluttered his lashes. "Pretty please."

She sat tentatively on the nearer bed. That was good enough for John, who flashed her another smile and swung open the door. "Oh, Bobby," he sang, disappearing inside, and she thought she heard Bob groan in response before the door slammed shut.

Immediately, her breaths started coming heavier. She busied herself with trying to get her nylons off as her mind raced. Suppose he was having her on, planning to make a fool out of her. An Aussie kiss from Bob Dylan! Should have seen your face, love. Not bloody likely.

And suppose he was being sincere.

In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought, pulling her pants down and off her ankles with shaking hands. Together with her nylons, she rolled them into a ball and stuffed them under the pillow.

John and Bob were exchanging words behind the door, first aloud, then in whispers. When whispers turned to silence, her stomach turned.

The door opened.

Bob appeared from behind it in a cloud of steam, biting his thumbnail, wearing what she had picked out for him. The striped slacks suited him beautifully; the flared cut almost gave him the appearance of shapely legs. She supposed she was lucky.

John followed right behind him. Something flickered across his face when he saw she'd lost her nylons, a smile with just his eyes. "Bob has something to ask you," he said proudly, and knocked Bob on the shoulder.

"Um." Bob was smiling uncontrollably. She wished she could see if his blush reached his neck, but in her genius, she'd given him a turtleneck. Should have just handed him a scarf and called it a day. "If it please my lady," he said with great amusement, "may I offer myself in service of your pleasure?"

Good grief.

"Please," said John.

"Please?" added Bob.

"Yes," she said, because it was nicer than Get on with it already.

Bob slouched across the room. His movements were still sluggish, but his enthusiasm was painted on his face. Her eyes widened when he sank to his knees at her feet.

"Your humble servant," he smiled, looking up at her through his lashes with an expression that was at once bashful and positively tickled.

She crossed her knees to rest her foot on his right shoulder, then his left, knighting him-- and conveniently exposing what was hidden under her skirt.

Rather, what wasn't.

John's lips parted.

"Jesus shit," said Bob, who now looked shocked. "Were you just walkin' around like that?"

In lieu of an answer, she hooked her foot behind his head and pulled him gently toward her. Taking the hint, he leaned down, blinking dazedly. The movement, combined with the sight of her before him and the cocktail of substances sloshing through his system seemed to make him dizzy. He planted his hands on her knees and started to slowly push them apart.

"Wait," said John.

Her head snapped up to stare at him with a look of incredulity.

His eyes widened as he cocked his head, pleading a silent I'm trying to help you here. "Well, don't just barge in there, y' daft get," he said to Bob, "play with 'er a little."

Bob didn't move, so John added, "Kiss her thighs."

He lifted her skirt and obeyed. His nose hit her skin first, and she jumped-- it was cold. But he soon warmed the spot with a trail of sloppy, lazy kisses, humming involuntarily as he went, up toward her hip.

"Other one," John said huskily.

Bob lay his hands in his lap and turned his head to kiss her other thigh, making her hips twitch with the first touch of his lips. He stole a glance up to gauge her reaction, and she was caught in his robin's-egg eyes for a moment before they fluttered closed again.

"Good," said John, a little breathless. She looked up to see if he was touching himself again, but for some reason, he was just sitting still on the other bed, watching with sharkish eyes. He caught her gaze and repeated, "Good?"

"Yeah," she breathed, voiceless. So far.

"Ready?" John said softly.

Heat spread through her as Bob continued his penitent nudges. She could only nod.

"Kiss her," John panted. "Right at the top."

Bob closed his lips around her clit and moaned sweetly. Her jaw dropped open at the soft, soft warmth. Already, she could feel her heartbeat race against his mouth, feel herself swell each time he pressed another kiss.

"That's it," said John. "Put your fingers in his hair," he added with a nod. The thought to disobey didn't even cross her mind-- she tangled her fingers in his curls immediately, earning a low "'At's a girl" from John. When addressing her, he spoke low and soft, but for Bob, he was a little louder.

"Lick her," he said. "Slow."

Bob's tongue flattened against her and slicked up a line of wet heat, and a high noise escaped from her throat. She couldn't help herself. Suddenly self-conscious, she stuck a finger between her teeth.

John wasn't sympathetic. "Do it again and listen to her."

Bob licked her again, with the point of his tongue this time, and she squeaked, pressing her whole palm over her mouth. He sighed against her and gave another lazy flick. Her whine came out her nose-- she couldn't stop it.

"What you trying to be all quiet for, sweetheart?" John grinned. "If I minded girls screaming, I wouldn't be in this line, would I?"

She couldn't hope to answer. Bob was licking the same spot over and over, kittenish, stuck in a loop, the point of his nose nudging and bumping. Her inner thighs grew cool where they both had made them wet, messy.

"Come on," said John, with the bottomless patience of someone who knows they've got the best hand at the table. "Hand down."

Trembling, she lowered her hand to Bob's hair once more. A sharp breath, a strangled "Ah-" tumbled from her lips as soon as she did so, and Bob echoed her softly between licks.

"There's a good girl. Now kiss and lick."

"Mm~!" she yelped, totally unprepared for the white-hot sweetness of Bob's lips and tongue covering her, playing, sucking, lapping her up.

"That's it, love. So pretty." Though her eyes were closed, John's voice filled her head. "Wouldn't mind listenin' to you for hours. God, look at you. Bloody Christ. 'Ey, doesn't she taste good, Bobby?"

Bob groaned and nodded, jostling an especially high sound of pleasure out of her.

"'Course you do. Here, scratch his head."

She could hardly breathe, but she dragged her nails over Bob's scalp as his head ducked and rose between her legs. He melted into the touch, heaving a heavy sigh. And kept going.

"Nice, is it, love? Gonna kill me, making all those pretty little sounds. So wet for 'im, aren't you?"

Bob was slowing down, it seemed, just to torture her. Every lick, every flick, came just a skipped heartbeat later than she expected it. A moan rose out of her at the faintest touch now, starved as she was.

"Like that, do you?" John's voice had darkened. "Little slut?"

She was moving her hips in an awkward wave against Bob's face, chasing the contact he wouldn't give her, when she realized John actually expected an answer. An urgent nod and a whining, "Uh-huh," was the best she could muster.

"Fuckin' Christ, listen to you." He almost laughed, like he could hardly believe it. "Couldn't even stop if you wanted."

John was right, but she wasn't the one stopping, and she certainly didn't want to. Bob was nearly still, leaving her to do the bulk of the work. And without his deft tongue.

"Proper little whore, isn't she?" John said. "Get a finger in, go on."

Something was wrong. Bob had fully stopped without a word. She opened her eyes and saw his head lolling against her hand.

John read the worry on her face in an instant. "What's the matter?"

"I...I don't know," she panted. "He's stopped."

"Bob?" John called, all pretense vanished.

He was asleep.

"'D'you kill him? Bob," John said, louder this time.

She held his face in her hands. "He's passed out." His once-chapped lips were softened, raw and red, and from nose to chin he was glistening with--

"He never." John stood and put a knee in Bob's back, then again, harder.

Bob grunted. His eyes slivered open. He licked his lips.

A small smile of disbelief grew on John's face as he shook his head. It was chilling, anything but happy. "I'm gonna kill 'im. Get up, Bob, yer done."

"It's all right," she said, "really." She was surprised he got this far.

"Get the fuck up, you lazy..." John was out of patience. He scooped Bob up under the arms and hauled him onto the other bed, provoking only a mild chirp of surprise. When he turned back to her, panting slightly, there was fire in his eyes.

"Is he going to be all right?" she asked. Bob appeared to be breathing normally, but he had slipped out of consciousness once more.

"'Course he is, the little shit." John dusted his hands off on his trousers and knelt where Bob had been just moments ago. "What a way to go, though, eh?"

She didn't move. "What are you doing?"

John opened his mouth, looking like he was about to say something sharp and cutting-- Flying a kite, what the hell's it look like?-- but he hesitated. His face softened. "Can I?"

That's what he'd wanted to say earlier, wasn't it? Or, I'll finish the job myself.

The opening bars of Love Me Do rang out, piercing, in her mind.

"Let me get up on the bed," she said, and tried to scramble backward against the pillows gracefully.

A real smile lit John's face for a moment, large-eyed, hopeful. He crawled over the foot of the bed after her and waited dutifully on his hands and knees.

"You don't have to, you know," she reminded him, though she lifted her skirt and bent her knees up anyway.

John shook his head, dead sincere. "I want to. I want to." He lowered onto his stomach and wrapped gentle hands around her thighs. His touch was so deliberate, so much more sure than Bob's, it made her flush with heat. "Wanted to since I saw you," he rasped, planting fevered kisses along her soft skin.

"Bet you tell all the girls that," she managed. Her voice trembled-- already and again, she was losing control.

"And it's always true," John said, practically growled, as he nuzzled the most sensitive part of her inner thigh. His nose was sharper than Bob's, and the pressure drove her half crazy. "Then you go and...tease me like that," he said, punctuating his words with more greedy kisses, ever closer to the center of her, "tossin' him off...flashin' me yer tits. Right...prick tease."

"You love it," she spat, the last of her inhibitions melted clean away.

John smiled. "That's right, my girl."

He touched a fingertip to her, wet it with the slick of her arousal, and began to swirl it around her clit with deadly precision.

She whimpered.

John let out a soft laugh. "Ought to do the same to you, you know," he said dangerously, still stroking wet little circles against her. "Get you good and hot and leave you wanting." He met her eye. "Hmm?"

"John," she begged, her voice close to breaking with need.

He couldn't take it. He sighed, a quick, explosive "Fuckin'..." and pushed his mouth against her like a man dying of hunger.

She didn't have to be told to clutch his head, cling him to her with a handful of hair; it was instinct. When he slid his tongue inside her, making her gasp, his head bobbed, the noble point of his nose dragged against her beating clit. "Ah, fuck," she whined, pathetic.

"Mm. You're so pretty, y'know that?" He surfaced for mere moments to praise her before diving back down and driving the blade of his tongue in her.

Every slippery push drew a heady moan from her throat. She was dizzy with it, with lack of air from her shallow, heaving breaths and his fucking devil's mouth. Her mind was blissfully empty.

Then he slipped two clever fingers in her, bent them, and she practically sang his name. It was meditative, the syllable that kept her grounded in her body, John John John.

Worshipful.

"Such a sweet, pretty little cunt," John murmured, then put his mouth around her clit. He didn't so much as falter in his pace-- he was rhythm guitar, after all. His fingers hit the back of her, filling and stretching her in the most profane way. Still he sucked, licked. Curled his fingers toward himself, Come here, come here.

It was enough. Then he went faster. Waves and waves hit her, she couldn't see she couldn't stop it--

"Please," she cried, breathless, closing her eyes as hard as she could, "I want to come..."

John sighed as if struck. "Come for me, love, come on."

She didn't have a choice, none at all, when her orgasm built and burst and lifted her back off the bed. She rolled her hips, wanted to scream, John was making it worse, maybe she did scream a little bit, this was the hardest she'd come in her life, fuck, John, John!!

...Breathing again. Back in her head, still in her body. Done.

John lifted his head, his breathing ragged. They were both shaking badly, and when she caught his eyes-- they weren't big, but deep and wide, hiding nothing-- they shared a moment of tired laughter. He swiped the back of his hand over his mouth, sawed it back and forth.

"You're good at that," she said, as if she hadn't just rattled the hotel walls and dampened the sheets with the proof.

"It's 'cause of me psychological hang-ups," John said in a lilting voice, already back to jokes in place of vulnerability. "I've got an oral fixation. Hopeless case, I am."

She just smiled. "Come here," she said, beckoning with a nod.

For the moment, John was quiet and did as she said, raising himself until his head was at her chest. When she patted her sternum, he hesitantly laid his head down, then his full body weight.

Breathing was harder, but the weight and warmth were a welcome balm. She stroked his hair, an action that was almost second nature to her now, and felt him breathe deeper. With the other hand, she trailed a few scratches down his back before resting her arm on his shoulder blades.

After a few minutes, he inhaled suddenly, like a yawn, but let it out just as quickly. She felt his face twitch against her chest as he blinked, once, twice, three-- four times. On a hunch, she let her fingers brush over his cheek the next time she pet his hair. Sure enough, they came away wet.

John was breathing through his mouth, a hollow sound, as quietly as he could.

She hesitated for a moment, then leaned down to kiss his head. "Could do with a cigarette," she said casually.

As soon as he moved, she laid back against the pillows and closed her eyes. Privacy was a funny dance, but she was a talented dancer.

His weight lifted off her a little too quickly, leaving her chilly. She heard John sniffle and clear his throat across the room, but only after she heard a match strike did she open her eyes.

He was back by her side, one hand in his pocket, two cigarettes in his mouth, and offering her the second one, just as before. Just as before, she took it.

"Ought to get his hearing checked," John said, nodding his head at a still-snoozing Bob, who was curled up without a care in the world.

"No, let him go deaf," she said. "He'll be like Beethoven."

John half-hummed, half-sang Roll Over Beethoven,, nodding his head and patting his thigh to the beat, and looked at Bob like he was considering rolling him over.

At the lull in conversation, she took a deep breath and rose slowly, stiffly to her feet. Her legs were a bit wobbly, but a good stretch would set them right. She reached behind the pillow to retrieve her underthings and put them on. There was a good, stinging ache in her where John's fingers had done their quick work; it wasn't painful or uncomfortable, but more like a muscle sore from a feat of athletics. Exhausted satisfaction.

They smoked in silence and looked down at Bob. His lashes fanned out against his cheek as he lay there in a drugged peace, wretchedly beautiful but impotent. He was too young, she thought, to be this old, too inexperienced to have lived this much. She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. His brow wrinkled and then cleared. Otherwise, he didn't seem to notice.

John nearly scoffed. "Suddenly keen on Sleeping Beauty, are we?" He was looking at her with derision and boredom, but she knew he was asking, What about me?

What about you, John?

She faced him, and perhaps that was a mistake, the way they immediately gravitated towards each other once she did. Her blood still ran hot for him, but...

He cradled her chin and tilted it up to make her look at him. Delicately, not with force. For a moment, she couldn't remember anything.

In the heavy silence, she lifted her hand to press her thumb against his lips, and his eyes fell shut in resignation. He understood.

John kissed her thumb. Just puckered his lips and straightened them again, really, but she felt it in the way he meant it. His hand left her face to hold her wrist, bend it down so he could press a kiss to the back of her hand, too. This one was longer, long enough to hear him inhale, exhale against her skin.

She smiled briefly, then broke their touch to cross to the other side of the room. John didn't follow her. With a deep, cleansing breath and shaking hands, she wrote something on the pad of paper next to the telephone.

"What's that?" John asked as she passed him on her way to the door.

"My phone number. And my name." She started to turn the handle to leave.

"Hey," called John, and she turned.

"Remember me when you get famous, eh?" he said-- to his credit, with a straight face.

She smiled and let it show. "Good-bye, John." Good-bye, Bob.

"Don't talk to strangers," was the last thing she heard before the door latched behind her.