Find My Way (A Paul McCartney Fanfiction)

(8)

Once we got home, we were both rather exhausted. Even though it was only 3:00 o'clock in the afternoon, I felt like I'd been up for days, and I could tell Paul felt the same, his weary eyes testifying to the fact. Our emotions had simply worn us out. Still, it wasn't anywhere near time for bed, so I figured we'd just relax for a while.

I unlocked the door and we went inside, our hands full with the bag of Paul's clothes, the books we'd bought, and the drinks we'd taken along from the fish 'n' chips shop. We laid everything on the kitchen table like responsible people, and then proceeded to collapse onto my sofa.

"Did you have fun seeing the world of 2022, Paul?" I asked him whilst turning on the telly.

"Yeah, it was real fab," he answered, his eyes now fixed upon what he would think of as being a huge television screen. "Gosh, that thing is gigantic!"

I laughed at his amazement as I lifted the remote and turned on Homes Under the Hammer, which I knew the modern Paul had a soft spot for. The young Paul didn't seem to care about what was on the screen, though; he was simply baffled by the remote.

"Let me see that thing!" he exclaimed as he took the sleek, black remote from my hand and began marveling at it. "How in the world does it work?"

"It's simple, really. You see, there's a laser thingy here on the remote that sends a signal to the television when you push a button," I told him, and to demonstrate I took the remote and turned the volume up.

"Oh, well when you put it like that it doesn't sound that neat," he frowned with a bite to his fingernail. "I've seen neater things in the bog after John's used it, y'know."

I let out a howl of laughter at his surprisingly crude quip. Thinking back on it now, it seemed as though he'd meant to say it to himself and not aloud, because he'd blushed profusely once I'd begun laughing.

"Paul!" I giggled in a tone of reproach.

"Wha'? It's true, isn't it?" he smirked, recovering his wits. "You wouldn't believe the things I've seen in that bog, Molly...especially after Mimi's bangers and mash."

We laughed and talked for what felt like hours after that, before we settled down and realized that we were both still tired and not yet cleaned up. Deciding that I wanted a shower, I told Paul to stay put, and that I'd be back in a moment. Once I was finished, though, I came back into the living room to find that Paul wasn't where I'd left him at all. I called his name, and almost immediately received a response in a positively panic-stricken tone.

My heart skipped a beat, and I yelled back, "Paul! Where are you and what's wrong?"

"In here!" he replied from somewhere in the back of the house.

My hands now sweating and heart pounding, I raced to where Paul's voice had come from, hardly breathing once I found him.

"Paul, what's the matter?" I croaked.

"Molly, it's this little fella, here," he said in an alarmingly worried tone. "I think he's dead."

With that, I finally (and with a near blackout from relief) realized what he was talking about.

There he stood next to the desk that my goldfish bowl sat upon. Mr. Bubbles was floating upside down in his little bowl, his eyes were all glassy, and his mouth was hanging agape.

Paul looked completely beside himself as he studied him further. "He's dead, Molly. I'm sure of it. I'm terribly sorry for your loss."

Stifling a giggle for what felt like the hundredth time that day, I said in a tone that I hoped conveyed sternness, "Paul, that's just how he sleeps. I can assure you he's not dead, but you sure will be if you scare me like that over something so stupid again."

At that, his entire countenance seemed to relax, and he gave me a goofy grin. "Thank goodness. I was really worried about him for a minute there. Oh, and sorry I scared you," he added as an afterthought, or at least he wanted me to believe it was an afterthought.

I gave him a suspicious glare, which he shrugged at in his innocent way, before I told him to go upstairs and get cleaned up since I couldn't stand looking at his dirty face anymore (he stuck his tongue out at me for that comment, so in turn, I gave him a slap on the back of the head).

After forty-five minutes or so (I never could understand why it took him such an unholy amount of time to get cleaned up), he reappeared in the living room wearing an oversized Walt Disney World shirt my dad had bought on our first trip to the States and since left at my house the last time he and my mum had stayed overnight, and a pair of men's flannel sleep pants I'd bought for a cheap price. The shirt seemed to swallow him completely, which accented how skinny he truly was, and the pants, which I'd assumed would be too small for him, actually fit him perfectly. I smiled at him, and with a nod to my gesture, he sat down next to me on the sofa.

"So, now that you're actually clean, would you like to watch a movie? I mean, it's still rather early, so we've got some time before I have to turn in for work in the morning."

His relaxed demeanor seemed to falter at the prospect of my leaving him alone, but he quickly regained his composure. "Sure, luv. What would you like to watch?"

"Well, I was thinking something like The Birds. You like Hitchcock, right?"

"Oh yes," he grinned. "The music in his films are always quite nice. So creepy and melodic. And I just love the strings in Psycho, y'know."

I did indeed know about his fondness for Bernard Herrmann's Psycho score, which would of course inspire Eleanor Rigby later on. It was so ironic that he didn't know that yet, even though it was his mind that made it possible for me to know about it now. How strange this all was.

I thought of these things as I found The Birds disc and slipped it into the DVD player. I then switched the light off and grabbed a blanket for the both of us to share (I swear I only had one blanket, so it's not what you think).

As soon as the scary bits occurred on the screen, I was delighted to find that Paul was as jumpy and easily-scared as a six-year-old girl. The funniest thing about it was the fact that, when he'd jump from fright, he'd try to play it off as if he'd just coughed or dropped his end of the blanket or something. Then he'd give me a faux confused look after I'd called his bluff.

It went on that way until the middle of the film, when he went more or less still and quiet. He stayed that way throughout the rest of it, and it wasn't until I turned the lights on did I realize he was asleep. Trying to fight back a smile at how adorable he looked with his heavy head rested upon his shoulder and his arms crossed, I bent down and tried to rouse him, for I was aware that he'd want to know that I was going to bed.

"Paul," I said gently with a light shake of his bony shoulder. "Wake up."

He did not stir, and with a look at his drawn, exhausted face, I decided to let him sleep. With a fond sigh, I guided him down to a lying position and propped his head upon a pillow. I could swear I saw him grimace then, which I thought strange, but I decided to ignore it and thus cover him with the blanket.

He truly looked so cute in such a vulnerable state, and I could only assume that I thought such a thing because he tried so hard all the time to appear as strong and perfect as possible, therefore when all of that trying disappeared in his unconscious state, it was strangely refreshing to see. It was as if I was finally realizing that he was a real, imperfect person, something that was hard to fathom when he was awake and aware of the impression he was making on everyone. A complex person, he was, which was what made him so interesting.

I watched him for a minute more to make sure he was going to be okay, before I turned off the light. And then, not being able to help myself, I bent down and gave him a soft kiss on his warm forehead. "Good night, Paulie. Sleep tight."

Thanks for reading, everyone! I really appreciate it! :-)