#paul mccarntye x fem! y/n

[likesomekindofcheese]

HC request! Paulie x fem! Reader, when he’s late for a date!

Of course!

cw: mentions of smoking, drinking, and briefly death.

So you arrive at the restaurant, thanking the valet for looking after your car. Your heels click on the pavement as you look up at the yellow glow.

You don’t know how on earth Paul got a place like this and would manage to eat without the press or an army of fans on his tail, but the crystal chandeliers and the soft violin music from the back gave you a hint why.

You catch a glance of yourself in the mirror, you have done your hair up so that it was put in a sixties-style swirling bun (if it’s long enough), wore a beautiful red dress with a crinoline skirt and strappy sleeves, adorned with white heels, a pearl bracelet, small white gloves, and diamond earrings complete with makeup. You felt beautiful.

As you walked in, you asked the host, donned in a pressed white blouse and a black vest “I am here for a reservation for Y/L/N, has a young man arrived here yet?”

The host shook his head and said: “no, he is not here, but would you like to be led to your table?”

This surprises you. Paul is such a perfectionist you knew he would normally show up somewhere at least an hour early. 

“Oh, uhm, sure” you say.

After a few minutes and a couple sips of water, you look around at the place fully. There are little booths, secluded. A soft, white-yellow glow radiates from the lights above. You smell the heavy perfume and cigar smoke from a few tables ahead of you. Women with necks dripped with jewels and men adjusted their ties and straightened their jackets.

After people watching, you realize Paul hasn’t shown up.

After you read through a white menu the size of your head, he still hasn’t shown up.

After the second reading of everything on the menu to pass the time with some mild amusement, from the martinis to the raspberry cheesecake’s in full or small sizes, there is still no sign.

Your head is reeling through the possibilities, 

It’s not his fault, perhaps there is the traffic you think after you order an appetizer. You’re famished.

As the minutes pass the appetizer arrives, your imagination starts reeling.

He’s running away to Antarctica with ten groupies and going to join a murder cult you muse worriedly.

You take nimble bites, torn between your anxiety and disappointment and the rumble in your stomach that sometimes catches a snooty glare from old ladies draped in fur coats.

You are about to order a dinner for yourself with a drink to go with it when you feel a sudden hand on your shoulder in the midst of your menu perusing and almost shriek!

“Paul! What on earth-what is happening!” you ask him.

You then look at how handsome he looks: his hair is grown out some but still neat, and he is in a dark suit that makes his eyes shine bright and beautiful. Though his face is a little red and his chest huffs some.

“Oh, Y/N, please forgive me it was...it was my dad. He showed up and surprised me and I couldn’t just leave him, oh, Y/N, I’m so sorry” he pleads, he even takes your hands in his and kneels down almost.

A part of your brain wants to give him a good dressing down for not alerting you or to dress down his dad but then Paul blinks a lot and lowers his head and speaks a little softly.

“Y’know, today’s the anniversary of...me mother. She...she died this day, remember?”

Suddenly, your grip on his hands lighten.

“Paul...you’re right...I forgot I’m so sorry, it’s a hard day for you.”

So you both enjoy the appetizer and a light drink when an idea hits you.

“Paul...your father shouldn’t be alone on this day too, wanna bring this dinner over to him? He might need some food as therapy?”

He smiles brightly “nothin’ sounds better than that, Luv, and he’d be ‘appy to see yew.”

Taglist: @queenlover05

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