Paul Mccartney Imagines

34

The rain fell in torrents outside, relentlessly pounding against the window, mirroring the storm brewing in Paul McCartney's chest. You lay on the couch, barely conscious, your body shivering under layers of blankets despite the fever radiating from your skin. It had been days since you first fell ill, and at first, both you and Paul had brushed it off as something minor. But now, he could see it—something wasn't right.

Paul had been away for a string of performances with The Beatles, leaving you alone in the flat. When he returned that evening, what he found terrified him. Your once bright eyes were dimmed with fever, your body too weak to move. Every attempt to sit up was met with a dizzying wave of nausea, and your words came out as whispers, thin and frail.

Paul knelt beside you, panic in his usually calm eyes. "Love, you're burning up. You need to see a doctor."

"I'll be alright, Paul," you rasped, attempting a reassuring smile that came out as a grimace. "Just... need rest."

But he wasn't convinced. The fever hadn't subsided, and you could barely stay awake. You felt so far away from him, even though he was right there, kneeling at your side, his hands on your burning skin. His heart pounded in his chest, fear creeping in deeper with every shallow breath you took.

"No, no, this is more than just needing rest," Paul muttered, almost as if trying to convince himself. His mind raced, filled with worst-case scenarios he couldn't acknowledge. He had been so busy lately—so caught up in the band's meteoric rise—and now, guilt gnawed at him. How could he not have noticed how ill you'd become? Why didn't he see it sooner?

He stood up abruptly, determination taking over as he grabbed your coat from the hook near the door and rushed back to you. "We're going to the hospital. I'm not arguing about this."

"Paul, I can't—" Your words were cut off by a sharp, racking cough that left you gasping for air. That was all Paul needed to see. Without another word, he gently slid his arms under you, lifting you off the couch.

"Just hold on to me, love," he whispered, his voice wavering as he cradled you against his chest. You were so weak that it scared him more than he wanted to admit.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling his warmth and the steadiness of his heartbeat, but even that tiny comfort couldn't chase away the chill sinking into your bones. The world around you blurred, fading as Paul carried you out the door into the cold, rain-drenched night.

Paul shouted for a cab, his voice frantic and louder than you'd ever heard. When one finally pulled up to the curb, he climbed inside, still holding you tightly in his arms, afraid you might slip away if he let go.

"Hospital. Please, mate—drive fast," Paul urged, his voice breaking with desperation.

The cabbie didn't ask any questions. The tires screeched against the wet pavement as the car sped through the darkened streets, rain hammering against the windows. Inside, Paul held you close, his hand brushing through your damp hair, whispering, "It's alright, Love. You're going to be alright. I'm here. I've got you."

You tried to stay conscious and focus on his voice, but it was like staying afloat in a sea of darkness. You could hear him, but it felt distant as if the world was slipping further and further away. And Paul—he sensed it. Every second felt like an eternity as the cab raced toward the hospital.

When they arrived, Paul didn't wait for anyone. He burst out of the cab, carrying you inside, his heart pounding. "Please, someone help! She's sick—she needs a doctor!"

Immediately, nurses rushed to your side, placing you on a gurney and wheeling you into the emergency room. Paul stood there for a moment, drenched from the rain and utterly helpless as they took you away from him, disappearing through a set of double doors.