"I give up! That's it! I give up." George set his guitar down on the coffee table then collapsed into a chair, leaning back, letting his eyes fall shut, running his hands down his tired face.

"No, come on, George," John sighed. "It's good."

George dropped his hand into his lap and shot John an exasperated look. "It's not," he said, shaking his head.

"It is," John insisted. "I promise you you, it is. Come on, Harrison, you've known me a while now. You know me well enough to know that if I thought it sounded like utter shite then I'd tell you to your bloody face. But it's not shite, it's a good song."

"Well, it's not good enough," George snapped. "Not for her, at least."

Paul groaned, shifting a little bit where he laid on the sofa. John repositioned Paul's head onto his lap and idly ran his fingers through Paul's dark hair.

"Are you awake?" John asked.

"I am," Paul sighed. "Is he gone?"

"Hello, Paul," George said.

"George, for Christ's sake!" Paul cried, sitting up. "Finish the song, put it on the damned album, and go to sleep!"

"It needs to be perfect!" George exclaimed.

"It is!" Paul sighed. "It's wonderful, it really is! I love it!"

George was silent for a moment before he asked, "Do you really?"

"I do, George, I swear it," Paul said.

"John?" George said.

"Haven't I said it enough, already?" John asked but he smiled. "It's good. Really, it is."

George nodded firmly. "Right, then. I'm going to pop the question. Tomorrow."

Paul's eyes grew wide. "Really?"

"You're going to ask her to marry you?" John asked.

"Yes, that is what 'pop the question' implies," George said, rolling his eyes.

"Alright, you cheeky bastard, that's enough," John said. He grinned. "Oh, they grow up so fast! Little Georgie, getting married, I'll be damned..."

"Well, I'm not getting married yet!" George said. "I've still got to ask and all that."

"But, she'll say yes! Of course, I mean..."

George and John rambled on together about this and that, where to do it and what to say, but Paul was lost in his own thoughts as he so often was. He'd been waiting for this day, George and Pattie finally getting engaged, since they were supposed to be married in 1966 and divorced in 1977. He wondered if they would stay married longer, or get divorced sooner, or if it would still be eight years away. The butterfly effect was a strange thing, hard to understand and near impossible to control especially when he was making such large splashes in the flow of space and time. Paul still worried, most days, whether or not he was doing the right thing. It was not lost on him that the F.H.O. was corrupt and evil, their prophecies were fakes. And if the prophecies were fakes then there was nothing telling him that John was meant to live. And if there was nothing telling him that John was meant to survive the day he was shot, then really that meant that...

"Paulie, you with us?"

Paul turned to look into John's eyes and he wanted to cry.

Really, that meant that John was meant to die.

"Yeah, sorry," Paul murmured. "Just tired."

"George is tired, too," John said. "Would you please tell him it's not safe for him to be driving home?"

Paul shot George a stern look. "You're staying here for the night, mate, and that's final."

"Oh, alright, Mum," George said, eyes rolling dramatically.

"The guest room is the one next to ours," John said, rising to his feet. "Come along."

"I think I'll just take the sofa, thanks," George said.

John and Paul glanced at one another, confused. "Um, why?" Paul asked.

"Just in case, you know..." George shrugged his shoulders. "In case the two of you decide to get... handsy... in the middle of the night."

Paul scoffed, jumping to his feet, while John laughed and George's shoulders shook with the effort to suppress a hearty chuckle. Paul trained his face into one of offense, mouth hanging open and brow furrowed. Paul tried hard not to descend into a fit of laughter but alas, it was a losing battle and he soon gave in, as did George. Then the three of them were laughing together, past two in the morning, in the living room dimly lit but just one standing lamp; papers with lyrics scratched onto them littered the coffee table and the floor and the top of the piano, and there were about five guitars in total just in the living room alone; and they were laughing together. It was moments like these when Paul sometimes forgot he'd already lived this life -- admittedly, he'd lived it quite differently but lived it he did, all the same. He wasn't really supposed to be here, but for just a moment he was allowed to forget that, and he was allowed to just be with his boys and laugh.

"George," John sighed once he'd stopped laughing. "We're not doing anything tonight, I'm sure -- I mean, it's late. We're tired." He clapped George on the shoulder. "Just take the room."

"Not taking my chances, thanks," George said, flopping down onto the couch. "Be a dear and throw that blanket over me, would you?"

Paul rolled his eyes but he picked up a folded blanket from where it lay on the arm of the sofa and spread it out over George. He picked up a discarded throw pillow that sat on the ground and tossed it over to his friend, as well. "There you are," he said. "Sweet dreams."

"Same to you."

"Night, George."

"G'night, John."

John and Paul headed upstairs together. They dressed for bed and climbed beneath the covers together. Paul thought that perhaps, in a moment of such content, he should say something; he thought that maybe he should whisper a sweet nothing into John's ear, but sleep's hold on Paul was strong and it dragged him down into a sweet, deep rest...

***

It was just minutes past three in the morning when Paul was startled awake. John stirred, mumbling something that Paul couldn't make out. Paul just shushed him gently, told him to go back to sleep. Once John was settled and relaxed, snoring against his pillow, Paul slipped out of bed and padded down the stairs and into the kitchen. He looked around, sure that he had heard someone or something moving around. He crossed the room to lean over the sink and push the window open, peering out into the backyard to see if maybe there was something moving out there.

"Hello, Paul."

Paul jumped frightfully, whipping around. He sighed in relief, gripping the place over his heart. "Oh, George, it's you."

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," George said.

"No, no," Paul said. "It's alright. Did I wake you? I'm sorry."

"It's fine, don't worry about it," George said. "I was just going to get a drink of water and go back to sleep."

"I'll get it," Paul said. He moved to the cupboard, got a class, and filled it up with the faucet. "Here you are, George."

"Thanks," George said, smiling. He took the glass from Paul and he sipped from it.

Paul got himself a glass of water and he stood, leaning against the counter and taking small sips. When he'd finished with it he turned to place his glass in the sink, deciding that he'd take care of it in the morning. He was just about to smile at the thought of saying goodnight to George and then crawling back into bed with John --

"PAUL!" George cried.

Paul whipped around and he had only a moment to react to what he found before him. He lifted the empty glass from the bottom of the sing and smashed it into the face of the man standing before him. Blood and shards of glass cascaded to the floor.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!" George yelped as the man tumbled to the ground, as Paul kicked him hard in the head. "I -- who -- how -- where'd he come from?!"

"I dunno..." Paul murmured, kneeling down and examining the man more closely, making certain that he was properly knocked unconscious. He spotted the gun peaking out of the man's coat and pulled.

"I -- I'll call the police," George said, leaping to his feet and making for the phone.

"No!" Paul yelled at his friend. "No, no police..."

George froze and looked at him with wide eyes. "What? Are you off your rocker, mate? Someone broke into your house with a gun and you're just going to -- what? Not call the police? Paul! PAUL!"

Paul looked up from the man's face. "George, I --"

Fuck, Paul thought.

"George, it's just very hard to explain, you see," Paul huffed. He rose to his feet. "I, um... it's just that... well, we don't want to get law enforcement involved, do we? You know what kinds of... substances... John has got just lying around. Not to mention John himself. And me. John and me, I mean. We're here, living together, obviously living together. In a big house, out in the countryside, a decent car ride away from anyone. They'll make assumptions, and the assumptions that they'll make are true, George. We'll be done for, all of us."

George glanced at the phone, then back at Paul. "I don't know, Paul... This seems really bad. What're we even gonna do with him? We can't just leave him in the middle of your kitchen."

"Please, trust me," Paul pleaded.

George looked at him, long and hard, and sighed. "I mean," he said at last, "you make a good point. The cops would know you two are living together the moment they walk through the door."

"Yeah," Paul said, nodding.

"I'll go get John," George said, hurrying toward the stairs.

"No, Geo--"

George turned around. "What?"

"George, I --" Paul's voice trailed off then, his mouth dry, tongue heavy all of a sudden. Paul stood, and he watched as a tall woman materialized into place like he'd watched Barney do so many times before, like he'd seen Tessa do. This was a woman whom he had never seen before, but she was in his kitchen all the same. She materialized there with a gun held and pointed at the back of George's head; she pressed her index finger to her mouth and Paul got the message: 'Stay quiet, or George dies.'

George frowned. "What, Paul? I need to go get John, he can help. We need to get this guy out of here."

Paul didn't know what he was supposed to do. He didn't know if he should respond, how to respond, if he was allowed to respond. If he replied, would George have his brains blown out of his skull? It was a possibility. Paul just stood there, mouth hanging open, looking rather like a dead fish.

George narrowed his eyes. "Paul! Why aren't you saying anything? Can you hear me? Hello, I --"

The woman wound her arm and slammed the butt of the gun into the side of his head.

"George!" Paul cried as his friend crumpled to the floor. He surged forward, dropping to his knees and cradling George's head in his lap.

"Calm yourself," the woman huffed, one hand on her hip, the other with a finger dancing over the trigger of her gun. "This ain't my first rodeo," she told him. "He'll be fine, he's only knocked out."

Paul looked up at her, lips pursed tightly. "There was no need for that. You could've just waited until he'd gone back to sleep."

"There was no time for waiting about, you knocked out my guy," she said, gesturing to the man who was still knocked out in the middle of the kitchen floor.

"He could've waited!" Paul snarled. "I know how all this business works. Well, I don't know, but -- but there's time travel and magic involved and I've never been disturbed while there was anyone around me before, not by anyone on my side or otherwise." A beat of silence passed between them. "Who are you?"

"Come with me," she said instead.

Paul set George's head gently down on the hardwood flooring and rose to his feet. "Who -- are -- you?"

"Come quietly and maybe I'll tell you," she said.

Paul swallowed hard. "Why should I?"

"There are some people who wish to speak with you," she said.

"Why can't they come here and speak with me?" Paul asked.

"Come with me."

Paul sighed. He glanced at the gun in the woman's hand, then looked down at George. He held no power here, had no leverage in this matter as long as George could be harmed. He could never allow George to be harmed because of his own mistakes. He sighed a second time, then nodded. "Alright," he said, "very well. I will go with you peacefully."

The woman smiled tightly. "Lovely," she said, and as if on cue, two people appeared at her side. One lifted the fallen agent that Paul had smashed his glass into from the floor and promptly disappeared into thin air, taking the injured man along with him; the second made to pick George up off the floor, but Paul leapt in front of him.

"Whoa, what do you think you're doing?" Paul hissed.

"Well, we're taking him with us, of course," the woman holding the gun said.

"Why?" Paul asked. "He's not a part of this, there's no need to bring him along."

"He saw my agent," said the woman. "He's a part of it now. Besides, it's terribly fun to watch you dance just to keep him alive. He looks sort of pathetic, doesn't he? But as long as I have him, it seems to me that I can say, 'Jump', and you will ask, 'How high?'"

Paul shook his head slowly. "Please. I will do as you ask, I promise that I will. If you leave him be."

"You say that, but you do not mean it," said the woman. "Step aside, let my agent pick up your friend, or I'll make sure he never gets up off that floor again," she said, and she clicked a bullet into place.

Paul released a shaky breath, nodding. "Okay, okay," he said and he quickly stepped out of the way, let the younger woman under the command of the lady with the gun move toward George and lift his long body and then disappear.

"Now," said the woman with the gun as she held out her free hand, stretching it out for Paul to hold, "shall we get going?"

***

"I'm Olivia Abbott," the woman introduced herself once Paul was properly restrained; he was thoroughly tied to metal chair and blindfolded, and then he was carried into a new room where he was to be interrogated -- or maybe tortured -- he didn't really know. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. McCartney," she added.

"I don't care what your name is," Paul spat.

"Rude," said Olivia, though it sounded to Paul like she didn't care much. He noted that she spoke with an American accent and wondered if it was real or not.

"Who are you with?" Paul growled. "What do you want?"

"Oh, use your head and take a wild guess, Paul," Olivia said. "I'm with the Shadows, and you know what we want."

"Of course," Paul breathed, "the Shadows." He let his head hang for a few moments and he groaned, let that groan build into a growl until he shouted: "God! Bloody fucking Shadows, always coming back to haunt me! You know, I really thought that I was done with you lot for a second there. When your leader... your president... queen -- I don't know, whoever she is. She joined the Unknowables and I thought I was done with all of this bullshit, with all of you sneaking around wherever I may go to try and take John away from me."

Olivia was quiet for a few long moments. "He's meant to be dead and you know it," she said at last. It was calculated; pointed.

"Not now," Paul said.

"In eleven years," Olivia said.

"Eleven years from now is not now," Paul snapped.

"But you have plans," Olivia said.

"Of course, I do," Paul said. "I don't want my friend to die."

"More than a friend," Olivia mused.

"What's that matter to you?" Paul questioned.

"You are blinded by love," Olivia said. "Blinded by being in love."

"I'd save him if we were in a relationship or not," Paul said matter-of-factly. "He's my friend. I want him to live."

"You know the prophecies are fake, don't you?" Olivia asked.

"I do," Paul said.

"Then how can you be okay with all of this?" Olivia asked. "How can you be okay with all that the F.H.O. does, going into time and changing it to their liking, making it so that they are in power? Why do you think they do what they do, Paul? For fun? Because they weren't in love with the first outcome of the entirety of space and time so they thought they might just dick around and see if they could come up with something better? No! They want power; they want rule; they want control! Before the F.H.O. decided that they needed to get involved, the United States 2016 Presidential Election was a great success! We had the first woman in office, things were looking up for the marginalized people of America, but now? Well, look at what happened!"

"Wh-what happened?" Paul asked.

Olivia laughed coldly. "Right, I forgot they ripped you out of 2015... Donald Trump is the forty-fifth president of the United States."

Paul swallowed hard. "Th-that's pretty bad... That's really bad. But I'm not working with the F.H.O. anymore! I'm with the Unknowables! They just want to leave history as its meant to be."

"Yeah, but they're making deals with people, aren't they?" said Olivia. "Making promises that they shouldn't be making. To you, Paul, they're making some of those promises to you. Promising that, if you help them, they'll keep John Lennon from being killed."

Paul didn't say anything. He shook his head slowly.

"Think of all you've had to give up for this," Olivia said. "The woman who was meant to be your wife is dead. Your children will never be born. John's children will never be born."

Paul sighed. "I -- I just --"

"Paul," Olivia said, and her tone shifted. She sounded... softer; gentler. "Listen to me... I don't think that you're a bad person. I don't think that at all. I don't think that you want to tear apart space and time to rebuild it all in your image because it's obvious that isn't what you want. You're just a man who's in love, a good man who doesn't want to see the person he loves most die. And that's respectable. I understand that you did not choose this. I know that you were torn from your home, from your life, from your time. You were plopped right down in 1961 and expected to comply. They made you believe that what was good for the world and for history itself was to comply; even as they grew cruel and killed the woman you loved, stole your children's very existence from you, they were still making sure that you believed you needed to save John Lennon for the benefit of the human race. You are a victim, Paul, just like everyone else who has suffered under the hand of the F.H.O. You have been hurt, you have been manipulated. But think about what you can have now... You can have eleven beautiful years with John. Eleven happy years. And yes, it will all end very tragically and you will be very sad. But you will take comfort in knowing that you got to spend eleven great years with the love of your life, and at the end of it all you still got to be sure that you weren't making any holes in the space-time continuum."

Paul sniffled. He wished his hands were free; not so that he could escape or fight Olivia, but so that he could wipe the tears from his eyes. "I've -- I was put in 1961 and I thought about John and George and Brian and my dad and Linda... and they took Linda. They killed her. They made it look like an accident but they did, they made sure she died. And then my dad. He was supposed to have another ten years of, just, natural life. I don't know if that was them or just the butterfly effect to this day; I like to think that they murdered my dad, quite honestly, because if it was the butterfly effect then it was me. And Brian... my God, Brian, I got to him in time! And still, they made sure he died. No warning; nothing. Just a car driving through him right before my eyes. They take and they take and they take..."

"I know," Olivia sighed.

"And th-that's why I need to save John," Paul said. "Please try to understand. It's one person."

"That one person is better known than just about anyone except for, well," Olivia paused, "except for Jesus Christ, really."

At another time, a better time, if he were talking to a different person and if he were under different circumstances, Paul would have laughed at that. But now he only shook his head. "I won't lose anyone else. Not like that."

"Alright, Paul, now I'm done being nice," Olivia huffed.

"You've got me tied up!" Paul yelped. "If that's what you call 'nice' then --"

"You are a victim in this whole matter," Olivia interrupted. "But if you continue on the way you have been then that is a choice, a selfish and dangerous choice."

"So kill me, then," Paul spat.

"That could create a hole in the space-time continuum!" Olivia cried. "God, use your head."

"I'm not going to stop trying to save John," Paul said firmly.

"Shut up."

"No."

"Shut up!"

"Make me!"

Olivia tore the blindfold off of Paul's face and for a moment he wasn't sure what the point of that was. He thought, maybe, she was going to use it as a gag so that he couldn't speak and he was formulating a snippy comment in his head, but before he could even properly come up with the brilliant, witty comeback that was brewing inside his mind he figured out exactly why Olivia had taken off his blindfold.

Sitting directly opposite Paul, a good ten feet away, was George. He was bound similarly to Paul, but also had a strip of fabric balled up and stuffed inside his mouth so that he couldn't speak. But he was there, and definitely awake, and he'd most certainly heard everything that Paul and Olivia had just said. 

~~~

Author's Note: Boy, oh boy! This chapter has been planned since the VERY BEGINNING! Can't believe I finally got this one up!!!