Paul McCartney was dying.
He had known this for some time, of course, and he supposed he was rather old – eighty-seven was a pretty good number, better than sixty four – but still, he was a little worried about what was going to happen. Ringo had passed away only seven months earlier, and it was then that Paul decided he was ready (more than) to go. Goodbye's had already been exchanged with his children and grandchildren, Ringo's family, Dhani, Julian, and Sean.
Idly, he wondered if he would see his mates, his brothers, again.
He glanced over to his right, where Nancy had taken up a semi-permanent residence in a chair by his hospital bed, and he smiled. Oh, she was so wonderful. He would miss her, when he was gone.
And, with that last thought, he closed his eyes, and drifted out of his body.
"Oi, you lazy arse, are you just going to laze in bed all day?"
Paul smiled, though his eyes remained closed. John's voice floated around him, as if he were really there with him.
"I'll tell George to eat all your breakfast."
He blinked his brown eyes open and stared, transfixed, at the face of John Lennon hovering over him, a smirk ghosting his lips. His hair was styled as a mop-top, but scruffier than it had been in the band's early days.
"John?" he tested, wondering if he was hallucinating as he died.
Or maybe, the painkillers were making him super, super high.
Whatever reason, he'd take it.
"Who else would I be, you ninny?" John joked. "C'mon, we've been waiting for you for ages."
"Ages?" Paul questioned, rising from the bed he'd been laying on – the room that he was in reminded him of some of the nicer hotels they had stayed in while touring – and followed his older friend to another room, a kitchen.
Seated at the small table shoved into the corner of the room was Ringo, absently doodling on a piece of paper as he devoured a plate of scrambled eggs. Good old Ringo. He looked young and old at the same time – almost as if he were flickering between what he'd looked like at twenty and what he'd looked like the last time Paul saw him healthy. Strange. Looking to John, he saw that the same phenomenon was occurring.
"Hey, Paul," came George's voice, and Paul's heart nearly skipped a beat – was it still beating? – when he saw the last boy, the man whom he considered to be his little baby brother.
"You're all here," Paul stated, his throat tight with emotion.
Ringo looked up at him and smiled.
"Of course we are," he stated, "we've been waiting for you. These two-" he waved a hand covered in jewelry at George and John, "- waited the longest, of course. I was dead chuffed when I saw them."
"No, you were dead."
"John."
"I'm not apologizing, that was funny!"
"It was a bit clever," George admitted.
Paul opened his mouth, but he hesitated. He wanted to ask his friends – his brothers in all but blood – for an embrace, a touch, anything to prove that this wasn't just a dream. George seemed to know exactly what he was going to say, however, and pulled Paul in for a hug. He released him after a moment with a soft grin on his face.
"You still smell like home."
Ridley: A oneshot of Macca reuniting with the boys to ease my John Lennon deathday feels.
Dragon: Uh, he died on the eighth...
Ridley: I know I'm late, but I don't care. Enjoy. Review?
