Paul McCartney Imagines

50

The rain had been pouring steadily since the dawn, a relentless gray drizzle that infiltrated your flat, seeping into every corner and making the air feel colder than it should. It was the kind of weather that typically invited lazy, languid mornings tangled in Paul's warm embrace, his voice playful and whisper-soft as he tried to coax you into staying in bed just a few moments longer, promising snuggles and endless cups of steaming coffee.

But today was different. There was no comforting warmth, no playful teasing. Just you, cocooned beneath layers of heavy blankets, feeling utterly wretched.

Every muscle in your body ached, your head was pounding like a bass drum, and your throat felt like it was on fire with every rasping swallow. Your hair was a tangle of unwashed chaos, your nose was raw from the constant barrage of tissues, and your fever had you caught in a relentless cycle of freezing chills and irritating sweats. You despised being sick. But more than that, you dreaded Paul seeing you so unwell, so vulnerable.

And, inevitably, that was exactly what was happening.

You had managed only a weak croak of "Paul, I don't feel well," over the phone before he had rushed home, heedless of your feeble protests. And now here he was, standing at the foot of the bed, arms crossed tightly against his chest, brows knitted in a deep furrow of concern. His damp jacket draped over the chair, droplets from his hair still glistening in the dim light as his eyes scanned over you, trying to gauge just how unwell you truly felt.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing balm, "why didn't you tell me you were this bad?"

You groaned in response, turning away and burying your face into the wall, desperate to hide from his worry and concern. "Because I knew you'd come home and fuss over me," you mumbled into the pillow.

He sighed deeply, the mattress sinking beside you as he settled down, the warmth of his body contrasting sharply with the chill enveloping you. "Of course I came home. You're sick."

"I don't need you to take care of me," you protested weakly, though the strain of your illness made your words sound less convincing.

"Well, tough, 'cause I'm going to anyway," he replied with a playful yet exasperated grin that sent warmth flooding through the icy bubble of your misery.

You scowled, tightening the blanket like a shield around your trembling form. "Paul, I mean it. I don't want you seeing me like this."

His silence lingered for a moment, full of contemplation, yet you could feel the heat of his gaze, a mix of sympathy and something deeper that made your heart stutter. "Why don't you want me to see you like this?" he asked softly, his voice a gentle nudge.

The tightness in your throat constricted even further. Because I look terrible. Because I feel like a shadow of myself. Because I don't want you to look at me and realize you could do so much better. Because I love you too much to let you see me in this state.

You swallowed hard, grappling for a response. "Because I just don't, alright?"

Paul sighed, his hand reaching out toward you, but you flinched away before he could bridge the distance. The movement seemed to ignite something in his eyes—hurt, perhaps, or a deep-seated worry. Probably both.

"Love," he murmured, vulnerability threading through his tone, "do you really think this changes how I see you?"

You clenched your jaw, battling the emotions swirling within you.

Paul let out another heavy sigh, rubbing the back of his neck in that way he always did when frustration simmered beneath the surface. "Christ, you can be stubborn," he muttered under his breath.

That was the boiling point. With every ounce of energy drained from you, the frustration bottled up inside erupted.

"Then leave, Paul!" you exclaimed, your voice cracking under the strain. "You shouldn't be here anyway! You have rehearsals, interviews, a million important things to do, and instead, you're wasting your time sitting here with me, watching me be disgusting and miserable—"

Your breath caught, and with it came the flood. You hadn't meant to sound angry; instead, your voice trembled, thickened with unshed tears, and suddenly the dam broke. Sobs wracked through you, shoulders shaking beneath the cocoon of blankets as hot tears streamed down your cheeks.

Paul's expression changed instantly, the concern morphing into something tender and protective.

"Oh, love," he murmured, his voice a soft embrace.

You turned away again, squeezing your eyes shut in despair, but the moment had passed; there was no stopping it now. Tears drenched your pillow as you spoke, "God, I hate being like this. I hate being like this with you. I don't want to push you away, but I can't help it. It's not fair to you, and I don't deserve you, and—"

Without hesitation, Paul reached out, pulling back the blankets and sliding into bed beside you, ignoring your weak protests. He gathered you into his arms, the warmth of his body wrapping around you like a shield against the world.

"Shh, shh," he soothed, pressing a soft kiss to your damp forehead. "It's alright, sweetheart. I've got you."

You clung to him weakly, your face buried against the comforting rise and fall of his chest, tears soaking into his shirt.

"I don't deserve you," you hiccupped, the words feeling painfully true.

Paul let out a gentle laugh, pure affection lacing his tone. "Don't be daft."

You pulled back just enough to glare at him, though the gesture lacked any heat. "I am daft," you sniffled, "and I'm a nightmare."

Paul chuckled again, brushing his thumb tenderly over your cheek. "Maybe. But you're my nightmare."

Despite the heaviness of your heart, a shaky laugh escaped your lips, your grip tightening on his shirt as a flicker of warmth ignited within the gloom.

His smile softened, his dark eyes searching yours with an intensity that made the air thrum around you. "Love, listen to me," he murmured, his forehead resting gently against yours. "You don't have to be perfect for me."

The breath hitched in your throat. "But I want to be."

Paul sighed, his voice a low whisper meant only for you. "I don't want perfect. I just want you."

Stunned into silence, you blinked up at him, the weight of his words settling deep within your chest.

Paul smiled softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that made your heart swell. "You don't have to push me away when you're feelin' rubbish. That's what I'm here for, yeah?"

You let out a shaky breath, a slow nod of understanding finally breaking through the fog of your despair.

Paul's smile widened, relief lighting up his features. "Good. Now, are you finally gonna let me take care of you, or do I have to wrestle you into it?"

You rolled your eyes, but the fight had evaporated, leaving behind a comforting warmth. "Fine. But if you try to spoon-feed me soup, I will bite you."

Paul erupted into laughter, drawing you closer as he pulled you under his protective wing. "Deal."

And for the first time all day, you allowed yourself to sink into him, enveloped by his warmth, love, and the soothing balm of his presence, wrapping yourself in the shelter of his everything against the storm outside and the turmoil within.