Paul and John were fine. They always were when they bickered or fought, and it wasn't even John that Paul was really angry with. He was angry with himself, with Yoko, with the F.H.O., and with the Shadows. Unfortunately for John, he had been the one standing in front of Paul when it all became too much.

"Maybe you should see a therapist," John suggested a few days after Paul stormed out of the house to go for a rage fueled drive. "Just to, you know, talk things out."

"Maybe," Paul said, but he never brought it up again, and therefore neither did John. What was Paul supposed to say to a therapist anyway?

So life went on, as it tends to do.

The tour — the grand tour — was fast approaching. (Well, not really.)

The tour was set to kick off in February of 1977, which was about a year away. But George was panicked and frantic, thinking about this tour at all times. This tour was his baby, he had built it from an idea into what it was today: a plan, set and ready to be put into action. This meant rehearsals — lots and lots of rehearsals.

"I'm sick of this," John huffed when they finally crossed the threshold into their home in the countryside one evening.

"Please don't start," Paul said. "Not tonight."

Martha came running to greet them.

"It's the drive, really," said John.

"I know," Paul sighed.

"Paul," John said. "Don't think about what I said a few months ago, okay? I'm not sick of being a Beatle. I'll never be sick of being a Beatle."

Paul only hummed.

"I'm excited for the tour," John said. "Promise."

"You're gonna be civil with Bowie, then?" Paul said, shooting him a pointed look.

"One hundred percent civility," John said, nodding firmly. "I will be the picture of professionalism. With one hundred percent trust in you, my dear."

Paul smiled. "Good."

"It's late," John said softly. "We should go to sleep. Another long day of rehearsals tomorrow."

"You go on ahead, I'll be up in a bit," Paul said. "I've got a song in my head that I want to get down before I go to bed."

"Sure you don't want me to stay up with you?" John asked.

"I'm sure," Paul said. "You'll only keep me from getting it done."

"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" John said, pouting.

"Well, you're just so beautiful it's distracting," Paul said, grinning.

John laughed sarcastically. "Okay, you flatterer," he scoffed. "I'm going to bed."

"Goodnight," Paul said laughingly.

John turned away from his husband, unable to contain a small chuckle. Paul watched him ascending the staircase. Once John had disappeared onto the landing and down the darkened hallway, Paul turned, smiling, and headed into the living room so that he might plunk out notes on the piano. This song had been stuck in his head all day, and he wasn't sure if it was something he'd come up with on his own or if it was something he remembered from his life the first time around.

He walked into the sitting room, pulling his driving gloves off of his hands. When he looked up, his gloves slipped from his fingertips and fell softly to the floor. "Who — who —"

"Hello, Mr. McCartney," said the man standing in the middle of the sitting room. "It's been quite a while since we last spoke, so allow me to reintroduce myself. I am Carlos Vega, of the F.H.O."

Paul stood stock still for several moments, wracking his brains, trying to remember who in the hell Carlos Vega was until — Shit. Carlos Vega as in the man who took over as Paul's F.H.O. advisor when Barney was in deep trouble with the F.H.O., at risk of being fired.

"Oh," Paul said. "Um, I, um," he went on, stammering, "hi. Is — uh — is everything okay?"

"Everything is perfectly fine," said Vega. "President Wilson has issued an order for a check-in. Standard procedure, I assure you."

"Okay," Paul said slowly. "Why isn't Barney checking in with me? He is my advisor, after all."

"Yes," Vega clipped. "We have to look in on all of our advisors once in a while, see how they're doing. If we left them unchecked, well, it would be anarchy within the organization. You understand, surely."

"I see," Paul said. "But — well, it's just that I've never had this done before. Why now? Is anything the matter with Barney?"

"Mr. Lynch is just fine, I assure you," Vega said, clearly growing more and more frustrated by the second. "And you don't need to worry about when we decide to evaluate Mr. Lynch's evaluation, nor do you need to worry about how often we do so. That is not your job, Mr. McCartney."

Paul bit the inside of his lip. "Right, of — of course. I'm sorry that I questioned you."

Vega visibly relaxed. "Well, that is quite all right, Mr. McCartney. Now, would you care to use your restroom before we begin? This may take quite a while."

"Er — yes," Paul said. He nodded. "Yes, I'll — I'll be right back."

Vega nodded back to him. He folded his hands behind his back and he stood still, waiting.

Paul retreated slowly. Perhaps too slowly. He quickened his pace. He knew that he needed to appear unalarmed, at least until he was out of earshot and out of sight. He forced himself to maintain a steady pace all the way up the stairs. When he reached the a landing he took a deep breath, told himself to keep his cool. If he panicked, then he was royally fucked.

He paused partway down the hall, and peaked into his and John's bedroom. He watched John sleeping for a few moments, watched his chest rise and fall, and etched that image into his memory.

Paul stepped back into the hallway. He took another steadying breath. He needed to assess the situation and fast.

If he contacted Barney and there was nothing to be concerned about and Vega saw him, then they were in trouble. But if he didn't contact Barney and there was something to be concerned about then Paul was in deep shit.

Paul screwed his eyes shut and bolted further down the hallway. Down to the very last room in the hallway he went, he pulled up the floorboard, pulled out the bag, yanked the phone out of the bag, and quickly tapped out a message:

Barney. Vega is here to check in with me. Says it's on FHO orders. Something to be worried about? If you come, be careful not to be seen. 23:21, 2 February, 1976.

He stuffed the little device back into its hiding place, then hurried back to the sitting room.

"Are you prepared to begin now?" Vega asked, and Paul nodded. "Excellent," Vega said. He gestured to the living room chair. "Please, have a seat."

Paul did as he was told.

Vega produced a helmet shaped device, with a strap looping beneath it, out of thin air. "The F.H.O. has, quite recently, gotten their hands on technology developed by the Shadows. So I believe you'll be familiar with this device. We've got it up and running a bit differently then they did, but with the same affects and the same results. We're just going to take a peak at your memories today."

"My memories?" Paul said, voice shaking. "So that thing, it's like — it's like what they used when they — when they —"

"When they took you hostage several years ago, yes," Vega said.

"But that was a torture device," Paul bit out.

"It's an interrogative device," Vega corrected. "It only hurts if you resist it."

"I know," Paul said. "It hurt like hell."

"Because you resisted them," Vega said. "And that was the right thing to do. The Shadows are evil. But we are on your side. There is no reason for you to resist us, Paul." The smile that tugged at his lips made Paul sick to his stomach. "It's time to begin."

Paul squeezed his eyes shut. Please, Barney. Please, Barney. Please, Barney, he chanted inside his head like a prayer. There was nothing more to be done. He had already sent a message to Barney, and now he was stuck there in that room with Carlos Vega.

Vega placed the helmet onto Paul's head and strapped it tightly into place.

Paul's mind was travelling a mile-a-minute. The best thing he could do was stall. He could resist. It would hurt but —

He pulled up the image of John, fast asleep in bed, in his mind's eye. Watched him, watched his face relax, watched his chest fill and deflate slowly and steadily. He watched him, allowed the image of him, safe and warm, to set something ablaze inside of him.

— there was no other choice; none that he could think of. He only hoped that Barney would see reason enough in his message to come check in on the situation, and that he would be there soon.

Paul built a wall inside his mind, brick by brick. He thought that maybe, if he visualized it, he might be able to fend off the memories for a while. That had worked the last time, anyway, when the Shadows had kidnapped him and delved deep into his mind.

Vega flipped a switch on the helmet and the thing whirred to life.

It was so much worse than Paul remembered it being. The pain — it was like his soul itself had caught on fire, like his bones were being crushed, like the blood in his veins was being boiled. He held tight to the wall he'd constructed, but memories started to spring through like water through the cracks.

It started out simple, and safe, with, "Hey, Paul! How's it hanging?"

There were flashes of images — Barney standing in the kitchen of John and Paul's apartment early in the sixties, and of Barney in the house that the Beatles stayed at in the Azores and then of Barney (disguised as their tour guide, Tony) on the boat where Paul almost died — that went on and on. And that was fine for a while. Everything was okay — everything aside from the fact that Paul had never known pain like he knew now.

Barney's voice rang out from Paul's memories: "I'm going to be focused on getting some very important information from the files of the F.H.O. to the files of the Unknowables."

Paul cried out, held fast to his wall.

"The Shadows... and the Unknowables..."

Paul repressed it as best he could. The pain, already unbearable, rose to new heights that Paul hadn't thought to be possible. But he pushed it down all the same. Vega had already heard the name of the Unknowables, though.

"Traitors." The word fell from Vega's lips. Paul thought, in some part of his mind, that it sounded as if he hadn't meant to speak at all — like he was so shocked that he just couldn't help it. Whatever he had been expecting to find, it wasn't this.

"No," Paul sobbed, desperate for some way to convince him that they were loyal to the F.H.O.

As if to put a nail in the metaphorical coffin that had just been built before his very own eyes, Barney's voice slipped through the cracks in a laughing voice: "Yeah, sorry for making sure we don't all get caught betraying the F.H.O., I'll just —"

Paul shouted to drown out the sound of his own memory. He forced his eyes open and he defiantly stared, screaming, into Vega's fiery eyes for but a moment before the pain became too much — beyond too much. His vision whited out and the only thing he knew was the sound of his own screaming and —

And then he knew nothing at all.