When Paul came to, he was breathing heavily. He tried hard to steady his breathing but he couldn't seem to do it. He was staring up at a tile ceiling, he could tell that much, but his vision was blurry through tears. He was in so much pain, body still aching terribly from the ordeal he'd just been through. He was hurting and tired and scared. He was laid out on a bed and he had no idea where he was (though it was, presumably, within the F.H.O. headquarters).
Paul drew in a deep, shaky breath, and stood bolt right up. Snap out of it, he scolded himself, eyes squeezed shut, and he drew up the image of John, peaceful and safe in bed, once more. Remember what you're fighting for, he told himself firmly, and nodded to himself, determined.
He forced himself to open his eyes, bracing himself for what he was going to find there when he did. To his great surprise, he was not surrounded by the court of the F.H.O., ready to sentence him to his death, nor was he surrounded by guards. President Wilson was not there to condemn him, nor was Carlos Vega, nor was anyone. There was not a soul but for Paul himself inside that room.
Paul took a moment to take in his surroundings. He was in something of a medical room. It looked to be a room that one might find in an urgent care facility. It was well stocked — there was a jar half full of cotton balls, and another full of tongue depressors; there was a sink and a row of cabinets and a set of drawers; there was the table-bed that Paul was laid out on — but not quite as equipt as a hospital would be.
Tentatively, Paul swung his legs over the edge of the table-bed, and he got to his feet. He crossed the room and yanked a drawer open, finding a set of syringes laid out on a cloth inside. He grabbed as many of them as he could hold, hoping he might be able to do enough damage if he could manage to stab someone with the needles and fight his way out of the headquarters facility. He knew that his chances were slim to none, but he had no plan that was better than this.
He burst out of the room and beyond the room also looked like an urgent care facility, if one that looked to be a little old. He frowned, puzzled, but continued on.
He could hear voices down the hall, and he made to move away from them, but one of them sounded like Barney. That wasn't quite enough to convince him to go toward the voices, but it was enough to make him pause and listen. And then he heard Tessa and, he was pretty sure, Darren, too.
Before he could convince himself that it was a bad idea, that it could be a trick, the syringes were slipping from his hands and clattering to the floor, and he was running down the hallway. He swung himself into the room where the voices were coming from and immediately came face to face with Carlos Vega, who was tied securely to a chair and had a piece of cloth in his mouth.
"Paulie!" Barney exclaimed, and he hadn't used that nickname in years. "You're awake! Oh, you had me really worried there for a second."
Vega struggled against his binds, trying to shout something at Paul, but it was unintelligible through the gag in his mouth.
"Sorry to have worried you," Paul said distractedly, unable to tear his gaze away from Vega. He looked around the room and noted that (in addition to Barney, Tessa, and Darren) Marbella, Stephanie, and Lola were also there. "Where are we?" he asked.
"The new Unknowables facility," Darren said. "The Shadows who still remain found our old one."
"They what?" Paul said, eyes wide. "Is everyone okay?"
"Yes," Marbella said. "Thankfully, I have some spies on the inside of those who would not follow me to the Unknowables. They alerted me that our base had been found and that an attack would be coming, so there were no casualties."
Paul nodded. "That's good," he said, looking around. "But where is it that we are?"
"An old Urgent Care facility," said Darren. "Abandoned years ago. We're somewhere along the twenty third century."
Paul hummed in response, his gaze falling, once more, on Vega. "What're we gonna do with him, then?"
"We've been trying to talk to him, but he won't shut up," Marbella huffed.
Vega shouted into the makeshift gag once more, pulling hard at the thick rope used to tie him to the metal chair. He locked eyes with Paul, made to lunge for him, but the chair was too heavy for him to lift off of the ground.
"The F.H.O. is going to be looking for him, aren't they?" Paul said. "What're we going to do?"
"Thought that one through, already," Darren said. "We're going to frame Marbella."
"Come again?" Paul said, eyebrows raised.
"The F.H.O. doesn't know that I've joined forces with some other organization," said Marbella. "We're just going to make it look like the Shadows have taken an F.H.O. agent hostage. If asked about it, Paul, you'll say that he never arrived for his check-in with you."
Vega grew quiet and his face fell as it dawned on him that this could actually work. The F.H.O. would be none the wiser because they had no reason not to believe that the Shadows had taken one of their agents for interrogative purposes, and no one would be coming to his rescue.
"And what happens when the F.H.O. just sends a new agent to take a peek into my memories?" Paul asked. "They're closing in on us."
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Barney said. "We need to take this one step at a time."
Paul sighed, "Okay."
"Come on, I'll take you home," said Barney. "You need rest."
Paul sighed again, but he nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."
Barney nodded. "I'll be back," he said to the rest of the room, then he led Paul into the hallway. Without a word, he grasped Paul's shoulder and they were off.
Next thing either of them knew, they were standing in Paul and John's living room. Paul sighed, relieved to be back.
"Paul," Barney said softly. "I was really scared for you."
Paul frowned. "I'm sorry, Barney."
"Not your fault," Barney said, shaking his head. "It's their fault — their damn fault. I got your message and I came right away because shit, of course that's something to be worried about. There's check-ins, sure, but only when the on-case advisor is up for organization-wide evaluation. And the on-case advisor would know that they're up for evaluation and I'm not! Not for another couple years. So I came right here and I crept around the house, wanted to make sure I wasn't seen just in case. And then you were — God, Paul. You know how when I'm here I can make sure John won't hear, and any of us can do that, and thank God we can. 'Cause if he'd been able to hear you he would have. You were screaming bloody murder."
Paul was quiet. "It, uh... yeah, it wasn't what you'd call pleasant."
"I'll bet," Barney said. "Well, anyway, I got in there and Vega saw me right away, called us traitors, and went to attack you. I got to him first, though. I had to wrestle with him a bit — I mean, we do come from the same training — and while I was fighting him, you stopped screaming and I thought — well, I thought —"
"Don't need to think about it anymore, though, do you," Paul said. "Don't waste your energy on it. Not now. We've got bigger fish to fry, and I'm right here, anyhow."
"Yeah," Barney said. He sighed. "Yeah, you are. And thank heavens for that."
They both fell silent. Paul wandered, absentmindedly, over to the piano and plucked out a few notes, a simple four-note pattern. "Had a song in mind before all this," he said. "I've lost it now," he added with a sigh, turning away from the piano. He faced Barney, arms folded. "What happens now?"
"We lie," Barney said. "And we hope for the best."
"I don't like that plan," Paul said, shaking his head.
"But it's the best we've got," said Barney. "You know?"
"S'pose," Paul said. He shrugged weakly. He huffed out a heavy breath, shook his head, and spoke in a voice that he forced to be a happy one. "How's Lilly? Near to bursting?"
Barney visibly relaxed. "No, she actually gave birth a few days ago," he said brightly. "I have a son."
Paul grinned. "That's wonderful," he said. "What's his name, then? Does Kylie like him or is she ready to send him back?"
"We named him Daniel," said Barney. "And Kylie just adores him. Can't get enough of sitting with him, looking at him."
Paul hummed, not sure what else to say. He smiled and said, "That's great," because he figured that was acceptable.
"Hey, Paul, go to bed, okay?" Barney said. "There's nothing more to be done tonight, and you've been through quite an ordeal. You need rest."
"Yeah, I guess so," Paul said.
"You're gonna have a hell of a headache in the morning," Barney said. "But other than that I think we've got you sorted out. Maybe stay in bed tomorrow?"
"I'll see what I can do," Paul chuckled, and he made for the door.
"I'll see you, Paul," Barney said.
Paul halted in his tracks, hand outstretched and reaching for the doorknob. "Yeah, I hope so," he said solemnly. He turned around to face Barney once again. "Hold your babies close tonight."
Barney nodded. "Believe me," he said, "I will."
Paul did not see Barney disappear into the air that night. He turned his back and left the room. He climbed the stairs slowly, one by one. It wasn't like he had a choice, of course, he was aching so badly.
He climbed into bed at long last and John shifted. "Mm, Paul?" he said.
"Hi," Paul said, doing all he could to keep the pain out of his voice. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."
"That's all right, love," John said softly. "Are you okay? You sound like you're hurting."
Right, well, I guess I did a shit job of that, Paul thought to himself, sighing inwardly, but quickly covered himself with a, "Yeah, yeah, just a headache."
"Ah, thinking to hard again," John sighed. "Get some sleep."
"I will," Paul said. And he did. He felt uneasy, and weary to the bone, and he hurt like he never had done before. He was sure that the F.H.O. was going to come for him and Barney and George — oh, poor George was never meant to be wrapped up in any of this — because they were going to see right through their pitiful lies. All of this weighed heavily on Paul's mind yet, all the same, he slept dreamlessly.
Such was life for Paul for a while, though eventually crippling fear would melt to consistent anxiety and then, at long lost, he would again begin to trust that President Wilson would not be showing up at his bedside in the middle of the night to smother him with his pillow while he slept. Because though he was convinced that the F.H.O. was going to see through them just like looking through a window, President Wilson and his court did not question their story. Paul was so sure that after that they would be sending another F.H.O. agent to evaluate Paul's memories, but alas, no one came. In fact, neither Paul nor Barney heard anything about the check-in.
"Don't you think — I mean, don't you think this is just a little bit suspicious?" Paul asked Barney.
But Barney simply told him, "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."
And just like that, in a flash, a year went by. Another year reliving this life, another year closer to when John was supposed to die.
It was February of 1977. The grand collaborative tour was just a couple of days away. Paul was walking into George's house, singing out his greeting cheerfully.
George stomped into the foyer to greet him. "Pattie and I are getting a divorce."
"Oh," Paul said, then quickly realized that he should, maybe, come across as a tad more surprised or remorseful or something. "Oh, oh, no. I'm so sorry, George, I —"
"Save it," George huffed, turning away from Paul and heading toward the kitchen. "You know everything that's going to happen to me nowadays. I love you, Paul, but, you know, it's kind of freaky."
"Not everything!" Paul protested, scurrying after George. "It's just, you know, there are patterns."
"Whatever, Paul, I'm not mad, it's just," George paused, laying his hands flat against the kitchen counter. "Whatever. I'm just tired, but also really ready to get going. Pattie said last night that she's going to leave the house. She's getting all of her stuff while I'm away on tour and when I get back, she'll..." he trailed off, sighed, "she'll be gone."
Paul sighed. "I really am sorry, George. And I'm sorry that I can't warn you when things like this are sneaking up on you."
"No, it's okay," George said. "I get it."
"Thanks," Paul said. "You know I love you, don't you?"
George clapped Paul on the shoulder. "I know."
***
Elvis Presley had turned down the touring opportunity and, though this disappointed John quite a bit, Paul wasn't surprised by this. He knew that Elvis' death was supposed to be coming up and, the way it looked like things were going, that seemed to be staying the same.
Elvis was not the only one who turned down the opportunity to go on a grand, collaborative tour with The Beatles, but they had a good line-up: David Bowie, Billy Joel, Queen, Elton John, Fleetwood Mac, and The Beatles themselves.
The tour was set to kick-off in New York City in the middle of February. And such was how they found themselves in New York City, on a blustery winter's day. They had one night in the city before the first concert and Paul was feeling anxious about being out and about, in the City That Never Sleeps, with John, in the city where he died — lucky for him, John wasn't feeling all too well and he decided that he just wanted to stay in the hotel room for the night.
"I'm sorry I'm being boring," John groaned from where he lay in bed. "Everyone else is going to be dressing up with their hats and sunglasses tonight, going out and having a good night."
"I know, it's terrible," Paul laughed. "We're going to lay in bed together and eat good food without anyone to interrupt us. How ever will I survive?" he added sarcastically, grinning from ear to ear.
"Can you go get food now?" John asked, whining just a little bit.
"You want me to go get food now?" Paul said, chuckling. He leaned in toward John.
"Yeah, I do," John said, sticking out his bottom lip in a pout. "I want you to go get food now."
"I'll go get food now," Paul laughed, giving John a quick peck on the lips.
John smiled. "Thank you."
"Mm, yeah, you're welcome," Paul said laughingly as he pulled on his coat and gloves. "I'll be back." He set off into the streets of New York City. The cold air felt like knives in his lungs and his breath was white on the air.
He was two blocks over, and turning his collar against the wind, when he heard someone calling, "Excuse me! Excuse me, sir!" but Paul had no reason to think that the girl was calling out to him. Even when the voice grew closer, and she persisted with, "Sir! Excuse me!"
Paul was busy scanning the storefront signs, looking for the restaurant that he was out in search of, when the voice was close behind him. The girl said, "Mr. McCartney?" and he turned around, completely unsuspecting.
The teenage girl breathed a shaky breath. "Oh, wow, it really is you. Um — wow — hi."
"Hi," Paul said. He forced the word to come out steadily — he knew he had to — but he felt as if all of the wind had been knocked out of him because he knew that face and, now that he thought about it, he knew that voice, too. And oh, God, this was going to hurt but at the same time he was so happy he thought he might cry.
"My name's Heather," said the girl.
Paul knew this.
"I'm fourteen years old," she went on.
Paul knew that, too.
"And, um," she paused, shook her head a little bit, "I'm really sorry. I know you must get this all of the time, but I — I just wanted to say that I'm a really big fan. Of yours, I mean — of your work, your music, uh... you know." She laughed awkwardly and breathed out shakily again.
Paul took a moment to figure out what to say. What was it that he was supposed to say in this situation? This was his daughter, one of his babies, the only one who was ever going to exist in this timeline! Except she wasn't one of his babies in this timeline. The only reason she even knew who that he existed was because he was Paul McCartney of The Beatles.
"That," he started speaking before he knew where that sentence was going. He coughed. "Um, that means a lot. Thank you."
"No, thank you!" Heather said gleefully. "Um, I don't have anything for you to sign — and I'm sure you get people asking you to sign things all day long, so I don't want to — uh, but — and maybe it sounds stupid, but can I hug you?"
Paul blinked fast. Don't cry.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, of course you can."
Heather grinned from ear to ear and she rushed toward him, throwing her arms around his middle. He put his arms around her shoulders and focused on his breathing, trying with all his might not to start bawling.
And then, before he was ready to let go, he had to let go. And she was saying goodbye and thanking him profusely for talking with her and then saying goodbye again and waving her hand as she disappeared into the Manhattan crowd.
He waved goodbye until long after she couldn't see him anymore, and he cried as soon as she was out of sight.
Paul had never thought about going looking for Heather. But, though the idea was only occurring to him now, after it was a pointless one, it didn't seem like a very good one anyway. He supposed it didn't matter. He'd gotten to see her, if only briefly.
He wondered where Heather's biological father was, and what she was in New York City for. He wanted to run after her and ask her, but he wouldn't. Of course, he wouldn't. He couldn't.
***
The Scenes From An Italian Restaurant Tour was on its last leg when Elvis Presley was found dead in his home. No one on the tour took the news well except for Paul, who had seen this coming. John took it particularly hard.
"God, I just want to go home already," he whined.
"I know," Paul sighed, rubbing his husband's back.
"I'm tired," John said. "I'm fucking exhausted, and this shit is not helping."
Paul hummed.
"He's really dead," John said, sniffling.
"Yeah, he is," Paul said solemnly.
"I honestly don't know what to do with myself, Paul," John said. "Maybe that sounds silly because I hardly knew the guy. I knew his music, and I met him all of three or four times, and now he's dead and I'm a fucking wreck. Maybe that's stupid but I —"
"It's not," Paul assured him. "Don't worry, it's not."
"I just want to go home," John said.
"A few more weeks," Paul said. "Just a few more weeks."
"I miss the house, and I miss Martha," John said. "Paul, I'm really serious this time, when we get back I — I need a break."
"I know you do," Paul said.
"And I think you do, too," John said. "I know you don't want to admit it, but I can tell, you know. Looking at you onstage every night. I know you love it — hell, I do, too — but you need a break, Paulie."
Paul nodded. "Yeah, I think I do... I do... I think we all do."
They fell silent for a while then, until John finally spoke up. "Jesus, Paul, I can hear you fucking thinking," he said. "You know, just because we take some time for ourselves, that doesn't mean this is the end of The Beatles."
"You promise?" Paul said.
"We've been going strong for this long, haven't we?" John said. "What's to stop us now?"
Paul only hummed, thinking to himself that they were going strong last time, too, and that things just fall apart sometimes. The darker part of his mind said, A fucking bullet, that's what.