Paul lived a short distance from the studio so it didn't take long to reach his house and buzz their way through the security gates. Trying to avoid the stares of the gatebirds, Ringo and John eased Paul out of the car, slinging an arm around each of their shoulders for support, and half-dragging, half-carrying him into the house like he had had too much to drink. Once inside, Ringo took his feet while John grabbed him under the arms to haul him up the stairs to his bedroom.
The house was tidy, thanks to Rose the housekeeper, but silent. Jane and Paul had split for good a few weeks earlier and her absence in the house was noticeable. John picked up a glass on the nightstand and sniffed it. Wrinkling his long, narrow nose, he said, "Paul's been drinking pretty heavy."
Ringo sighed and started taking off Paul's shoes. "He didn't need Jane to leave him just now." He pulled the bedclothes over Paul and they both stood looking at him.
Paul's face, even in unconsciousness, was wan and sad. "Perhaps we should rouse him?" John suggested uncomfortably. "He's been out a fair time."
"I suppose," Ringo replied. They were both thinking back to the death of Brian not that long ago.
John jiggled Paul's shoulder, "Paul, hey, Paul, wake up, man."
Ringo bent over him and gently slapped him in the face. "What're you doin'?" John asked incredulously.
"I saw it in a movie," Ringo explained lamely.
Paul grunted and turned his head away. His eyes opened and he blinked in confusion to find himself in his own bedroom. He turned his head back to see Ringo and John standing beside the bed watching him. He sat up slowly, clutching his aching head in his hands. His eyes burned.
"Take it easy, lad," Ringo warned.
"Oh God," Paul said as he suddenly remembered everything that had happened. He grimaced and struggled to control his emotions.
"Hey," John said, "That was some pretty keen performance."
Ringo frowned at him, but Paul, understanding the Lennon behind the sarcasm, just looked at him and wearily replied, "I'd like to see you top it."
"I may someday, brother. Who knows, I may," John said, nodding thoughtfully.
Ringo just shook his head. "I don't understand the pair of you," he said. "Are you all right, Paul?"
"Embarrassed as hell, but ok, I think," he replied cautiously.
"Well, considering what we've been through, I think we're all entitled to go crackers at least once or twice," John joked and slapped Paul on the back hard enough to vault him off the edge of the bed.
Catching himself, Paul looked at John with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. He shook his head. "Why I oughta..." he threatened.
"Aw, go on, yer eyes are too fuckin' bloodshot to even get a line on me," John scoffed.
Ringo chuckled as Paul launched himself at John and they staggered around in a mck fight that soon turned into a four-time waltz that made him outright laugh. Just like the old days. The two of them must've had the same thought. They stopped and looked at each other thoughtfully.
"Going a bit soft, we were," John observed awkwardly.
"A bit off-track," Paul agreed, then swiftly changed the subject. "How about a cuppa, eh? I know I could use one."
"Sounds great," Ringo said.
In stocking-feet, Paul led them back down the stairs to the kitchen. Just as the water was heating, the gate buzzed. It was George. Paul opened the gate for him and a few moments later the four of them were sitting down for tea. Paul's emotional outbreak had sobered them all to the fact that they were still somehow bound together, as mates, as musicians, or whatever it was, for a while longer. And that binding was still something to be considered somewhat sacred.
