Find My Way (A Paul McCartney Fanfiction)

(9)

The next morning, I nearly fell out of bed because, with a look at my alarm clock, I found I was running dreadfully late. I barely had time to get dressed properly, before it was time to leave. I went into the living room and saw that Paul was still asleep, so I decided to write him a note that would explain where I'd gone, what he could find in the kitchen to eat, etc. With a quick glance at him, I noticed there was sweat upon his forehead and that his face was a bit pale, but I blamed these facts on the heat of the thick blanket he was resting beneath and the lack of sun he probably got on a daily basis.

All in all, once I got to work, it turned out to be, well, work. Every time I would try to focus on a report I was writing, my mind would begin to drift towards Paul, and then I'd have to shake myself back into reality (which doesn't turn out to be a good thing to do when you're holding a cup of tea in your hand).

That being said, I think I'll spare you the details of my wonderful day at work, and instead give you the more exciting (and somewhat alarming) details of what occurred when I got back home.

I opened the door to find that, surprisingly enough, the television was on. I hadn't thought that Paul would know how to work it very well, but alas, I was apparently wrong in my assumption.

"Paul?" I called out as I threw my keys on the table and took off my coat. "Where are you?"

It was then that I heard soft footsteps coming from the hallway. I turned around, and with great dismay, I found a white-faced Paul hunching over with a hand thrown over his stomach. Even from the distance we were standing apart, I could see that he was sweating, and that his eyes were shimmering with pain.

"Molly," he began in a weak and croaky voice, "thank goodness you're back."

My heart broke for him as I went to his side. I could tell he was trying to pull himself together, but his eyes gave away his misery. I frowned and inquired, "Paul, what's wrong? Are you alright?"

"Got a bit ill, is all," he replied, embarrassed. "Strangest thing, y'know. I felt fine all day, even read a bit of that Barry Jotter."

I ignored the fact that he'd just butchered Harry Potter's name as he continued, "Then I decided to switch on the telly. That proved my mistake, because as soon as I did, I got a bit dizzy, and my stomach got all nauseous, and I, well, I sort of threw up. It's okay now, though, so don't worry," he added in a rushed, yet stronger tone.

"I'm really sorry I wasn't here for you, Paul," I sighed sympathetically. "Here, why don't we go sit down now, yeah? You must be exhausted after all that."

"No, no, I'm fine really. I feel better now," he assured me. It was noticeable that he did seem better than he had when I'd first seen him only seconds prior, which didn't really make sense to me, even though I was glad of it. Thinking about it, though, this wasn't the first time he'd felt ill since he'd been in 2022. What was the common denominator in his sudden attacks of sickness?

"Are you joshing with me, son? Because if you really don't feel well, there's no shame in it," I chided him.

He laughed at that, and said, "You sounded like John just then, y'know."

"Well, someone's gotta talk sense into you, don't they?" I smiled with a light hit to his arm. I noticed that his smile faltered a bit then, and I couldn't help but think that he was missing his mates again. His big, sad eyes looked into my brown ones, and my heart broke.

I simply couldn't resist the urge I'd felt since I first saw him so weak and pale in the hallway any longer, so I pulled him into a hug, lightly patting his back as he returned the embrace. "I am still sorry that you're stuck here, Paul. I truly am."

I felt his soft hair brush against my cheek as he rested his head upon my shoulder, before he replied in a voice so sweet I thought I might melt, "I'm not stuck here, am I? I mean, I'm with you, after all."

I seriously had to stop myself from saying 'Aww' at that. He was just so kind and understanding, even when he was in a scary situation or not feeling well. I simply couldn't fathom how admirable he was. I mean, it just didn't seem possible that someone could be so nice all the time. Yet, here was the living, breathing proof standing in front of me.

"Thank you, Paul," I said, and I truly meant it with every fiber in my body.

"No, thank you, luv," he replied almost instantly, his cheeks regaining some color, which I was relieved to see.

"Well," I then asked him in an obviously giddy tone as we went into the living room. "You're sure you're better now?"

"Much better, ta," he winked whilst plopping onto the sofa.

"Good," I nodded as I glanced up at the television to find a couple of news reporters advertising a story they were going to show for George Harrison's upcoming birthday.

Horrified, I leapt towards the remote and smashed the 'off' button. I then looked at Paul, worried that he'd just witnessed one of the things that could possibly ruin his life and the present as we knew it. Instead, I found him holding his head in what I could only perceive as pain.

"Paul? You alright?" I asked him worriedly.

"Yeah, sorry. I'm alright now. That sick feeling just came over me again," he grimaced.

And, as soon as he'd made his comment, realization dawned upon me. My eyes widened, and it was only too obvious that I'd hit upon an explanation. Curious, Paul inquired, "What? What have you thought of?"

"I think I know what's making you ill."

"Well let's have it, then," he pressed.

But then I realized—my explanation would give him too much information in itself. Therefore, I couldn't tell him.

My big mouth had gotten me into trouble once again. What was I to do?

I'm becoming more and more unhappy with how this book is turning out, but I've been sick and generally not in the mood to write because I've been using that time to finish reading the Sherlock Holmes books (Has anyone read them? Because I'm obsessed, haha). So, I'm sorry if this isn't going too well, but I just don't have it in me to care as much as I should. XD