Hi! skip right to this update? Well skip on back a chapter, cuz I put up two chapters. Yes, TWO. TWO WHOLE CHAPTERS jdbhdebhjd love me.

So Holy Moley so this is by far the longest chapter I've ever written. Ever. And I love this so, so much, this chapter is mine and Bluetruth's baby, we worked so hard on it. A LOT of angsty Paulie in this one ;)

After John had been transferred to the ICU, George had voulenteered to take Paul back to the hotel. Ringo had agreed, knowing Paul was a right mess and needed to sleep. He would've gone with them, but he knew George would have better luck taking care of Paul, considering they'd known each other since elementary school. Besides, he felt like he needed to stay with Brian, who was barely holding it together, even though he was stubbornly denying it for their sakes.

It was obvious though, despite their managers efforts, that the slightest mistake of the doctors could screw everything up. It was a possibility that was becoming more and more likely with every passing minute, The only thing they knew right now was that it was a combination of stress and excessive smoking that caused the cardiac arrest, but other than that, there had been no word on the condition of the first half of Lennon/McCartney.

At the hotel

George rubbed his sopping wet hair with the fluffy hotel towel, shivering slightly as the air conditioning hit his bare skin as he stepped out of the warm, steamy bathroom. The rising sun was weakly shining through the window, and the clock read 7:08. Feeling decidedly more relaxed after his shower, George quickly slipped into the same dress shirt and pants from yesterday, (their luggage still wasn't there yet), dropped the towel onto the floor and strode over to Paul's room, wondering if he'd actually gone to sleep like he said he would. Prolly not, George thought. The way he was acting back at the hospital... There's more of a chance of Brian letting us all get crew cuts.

And predictabley, Paul was indeed awake, sitting hunched over on the desk in his room adjacent to the door and blankly staring at a piece of paper, twirling his pen in his left hand. George crept closer, feeling a twinge of worry when he saw the angry blue lines slashed onto the paper.

"Paul, mate, you need to sleep," He said gently, stopping a little distance away from Paul.

"Go away, George." Paul said shortly, starting a bit and crumpling up the piece of paper angrily throwing it aside. George noted the faint blue scratches on the table, and swallowed a bit before speaking again.

"Just-"

"George I mean it. Just... Just fucking leave." Paul said quietly. "Please." he added, his voice cracking, carefully avoiding George's eyes by staring at the empty desk in front of him.

The "please," nearly got to George and he almost turned around and left Paul to wallow in his misery, but he knew he couldn't. Now that George thought about it, Paul hadn't slept since before they left for New York, which made it a grand total of 2 nights without any sleep. And what with all that had happened, he needed to get some sleep to get his head on straight. Stewing in his own thoughts as exhausted as he was would do nothing for anybody, except maybe make him go a little crazier.

"I'm just worried bout you," George muttered, trying to let his sincerity show. He winced slightly as Paul turned his face to look at him, and he caught a glimpse of the dark purple bags under Paul's eyes, illuminated by the morning sun.

"I'm fine." Paul hissed in a clipped tone, suggesting the exact opposite. He suddenly stood up and pushed past the guitarist, who was still trying to talk some sense into his friend.

"No, Paul. You haven't slept all night, and with what's been up with John, well, you're not fine." George insisted. Paul stopped dead, rubbing at his eye with the palm of his hand leaned against the door frame but didn't turn around.

"Just let it go, George," Paul whispered. His eyes were glued to a painting in the room beyond of some U.S. President that Paul hadn't heard of and didn't care to know any more about.

"Just a couple of hours, Paulie," George pleaded. "That's all. And then you can spend all the time you want with John, at the hospital. Okay?"

Something inside Paul snapped. He didn't know whether it was from exhaustion, or of his own sane mind, or just being fed up with everything. But he remembered John saying those exact words to him ('Just a couple of hours, Paulie, alright? Sleep. Y'know. Bed, and pillows, and blankets, and all that.') a couple months ago when he'd been vomiting up everything he'd ever eaten and more but still wanted to stay up and write. But after he said 'Paulie' his blood ran cold and he widened his eyes in fury.

He whipped around and bolted back to George, shoving him over the chair where he had been sitting. The guitarist toppled over the edge and fell to the ground with a loud thud.

"Don't you fucking tell me what to do!" Paul screeched rounding on George with a outraged expression on his face.

"The fuck, Paul!" George yelled, holding his arms in front of him like a shield as he popped back up, hair sticking up and brushed the wrong way, but otherwise unharmed.

Paul tackled him, fury running through his veins like a red-hot river, redness clouding his mind and vision. He pounded George, dealing punch after punch to his friend.

"Don't-" Punch. "You-" Punch. "Fucking-" Punch. "Act-" Punch. "Like-" Punch. "It's all-" Punch. "Fucking-" Punch. "Okay!"

George had been in enough fights to know how to fight back, which he did. He lifted his legs around Paul's neck and brought him down, therefore enabling him to, after a brief tussle on the ground, sit on Paul's stomach and pin his arms down.

"FUCKING LET ME GO!" Paul roared, twisting and bucking as hard as he could.

"Paul..Ah!" George flinched as Paul brought his wrist to his mouth and bit down hard. He didn't let go, though. "Paul, Paul! Fucking listen to me, dammit!"

He didn't stop struggling, and when Paul bit down harder on George's wrist he instinctively brought his hand away, and Paul used his free hand to bring his fist across George's cheek.

George fell to the ground, only to have Paul hoist him up and continue pounding him, connecting a solid punch to his right eye.

"Don't fucking tell me that everything will be all jolly good and John'll be fine and we'll all be able to live happily ever after with no problems whatsoever after he wakes up!" If he wakes up, Paul thought, but quickly pushed the idea out of his head. He had to wake up. He had to.

"I can't bloody stand to hear that right now. It's fucking useless, and it's the same fucking junk that they spouted at me when-" His voice hitched in a sob he choked back down. His voice was steadily growing higher, as he continued hysterically. "When she died, when you and I and everybody else in this goddamn country and probably the world by now knows that there's nothing, absolutely nothing they can ever do to make them good again!" He threw another punch at George's other eye, but he ducked and managed to avoid it, still stunned at what his best friend was doing and saying."

Paul was breathing heavily, practically panting as he continued to yell as he aimed more weak hits at George.

"George," Paul whispered, suddenly collapsing in a heap on the ground, biting his lip to make sure he wouldn't burst into tears like a bird. "What if- what if he doesn't wake up? Christ, I can't- I can't."

"He'll wake up," George said, trying to sound confident despite his trembling voice.

"You don't know that," Paul choked out. "You don't know that."

"No, I don't, but Paul..." He trailed off, not really knowing what to think.

"What." Not a question. A cold, short, bitter word.

George blinked, the throbbing pain in his eye making it hard to think straight. Paul was just looking at him now, panic still clearly evident in his eyes and apparently daring George to say something to contradict him and at the same time, pleading with him to say something to make it all better.

"He got really lucky, Paul."

Paul stood up abruptly and growled. He grabbed a white coffee cup and chucked against the opposite wall, causing George to flinch and wince as the hot liquid inside scalded his skin. He didn't bother getting up from the floor, knowing it'd be no use. Whatever Paul was going to do, George knew from experience that in the rare occasion when he got like this, it was best to let it run its course. Trying to help would only make it worse.

"Have you lost your fucking mind? He just broke a shit load of bones and almost died 'cause his heart stopped fucking beating, and he's goddamned lucky?' Paul hollered, bending down and lifting George by the collar, completely ignoring the flash of hurt that flickered in his mate's brown eyes.

He dropped him again, tossing him to the floor like the towel he had used earlier, and George stayed down, using his shaking elbows to prop himself up as Paul started pacing, covering his face with his hands.

"What if he's paralyzed, huh?" The bassist demanded as he stopped across the room, running a hand through his hair and looking at George, who wisely didn't answer, knowing Paul didn't really want an answer. He wasn't angry at what he said, he was more angry at the situation and needed to hit something. And George happened to be the best thing at the moment.

"What if he has brain damage? Would you call that lucky? What if he- what if he can't sing or play or... or any of the shit that quack said he's probably going to get?" He said, his voice steadily dropping, mainly just talking to himself now. He abruptly stopped pacing, staring at his hands as George saw him visibly deflate. His facial features went limp, and when he spoke up again, it came out as a choked whisper.

"And fuck. I'm not going to be able to fucking do anything, and if he dies or something goes wrong with whatever the fuck their doing, I'm not going to know right away and I'm not going to know and I can't do anything. This isn't a goddamned song or something, it's his fucking life and I can't do anything and if he dies I can't- Jesus Christ, George, I couldn't- I can't..." And there it was, almost an admission to himself. His voice was empty, cold. He fell back on the carpet, rubbing his eyes and letting exhaustion run over him.

Completely, utterly, and entirely defeated.

"He's lucky to be alive," George spoke up, knowing that Paul needed to hear what he had to say. Paul gave a bitter, sarcastic laugh but George pressed on anyway.

"Just... just listen, Paul. If John hadn't fallen at the hotel, he wouldn't have gone to the hospital, would he?" Paul gave him an annoyed look and didn't say a thing.

"We would've been here, at the hotel, when he had his cardiac arrest. You heard the doctor, it was a matter of when, not if." He said softly, and realization flickered across Paul's face as his eyes widened.

"We all would've been asleep," He croaked looking completely torn. George nodded, feeling a lump in his throat and tears prick his eyes. But he swallowed them down and continued.

"Including John. We might not ever have noticed, Paul, he-" He stopped, the thought making his blood run cold. "He could've died in his sleep, Paul."

If Paul had felt defeated before, he felt universally empty now. There was none of the light or joy or optimism in the usually bright eyes of the bassist.

"Christ." Paul whimpered. George was right. It was all he could imagine, them waking up and shouting for John to join them, not really worrying when he didn't show up. He wasn't an early riser at all. And them going in to do the technique of jumping on him or tickling him or whatever, and only panicking when he didn't flinch, and then realizing something was wrong and them yelling and trying to imitate the movies and the telly to check for a pulse and whatnot, and then realizing what had happened and trying to wake him up... just imagining the picture of a cold, dead, John Lennon was enough to make the taste of pennies rise up in Paul's throat and his stomach churn.

"And it was lucky you were awake and talking to him, too, yeah? If you hadn't been talking me and Rings wouldn't have woken up either, and god knows when someone would've walked in and found out."

Paul gulped and nodded, which encouraged George to go on.

"So if he can't sing or play or whatever, he'll always be a Beatle, yeah? Always be our mate, and- and he'll always be John. He'll be alive and he'll be with us... isn't that the most important thing?"

Paul nodded weakly, his eyes tearing up again even as he stubbornly tried to stop them. It didn't work, and he put his head in his hands as the sobs made the lump in his throat slowly dissolve.

"You're right.. Fucking hell Georgie..." He said looking up through red and blurry eyes to examine exactly what he'd done. George's left eye was already red and starting to swell up, and there was a very painful looking scrape above his eyebrow.

"Christ, I'm so sorry"

"Yeah, I get it. I'll give you a pass this time" George gave his friend a weak smile, then nodded towards the bed "Now, go sleep. I mean it."

"I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't?"

Paul's eyes fell to the ground and he shrugged. George crawled over to his side and sat down

"Paulie?" George poked Paul's shoulder. "What's wrong?"

His friend sighed and mumbled something that sounded a lot like, "I kans leapbe cos hemiight... y'know whenI'm noat tahtre nd' I wonud noow rig awhy."

George had gotten pretty used to understanding thick accents even in the most intoxicated state, but he had no way at all in deciphering the low, jumbled Liverpudlian accent. "Er, what?"

Paul glared at him and shook his head.

"No, tell me."

Paul gave him an annoyed look but sighed and said, much slower but not much louder: "I can't sleep because he might... y'know when I'm not there and I wouldn't know right away."

"Die?"

Paul flinched at his words, but George had prepared himself so when Paul gave him the coldest glare on earth he didn't tear his gaze away.

"Mhm."

"He's not gonna die, Paul."

"You don't know that."

"I know. We've been over this already. But when have you ever known John to stop fighting?"

Paul searched every memory of John to prove George wrong, but he came up empty handed. When he didn't answer, George spoke again.

"So why would he start stop fighting now?"

Paul shrugged, but George knew he had hit a nerve. "Look, Paul. You know John better then any of us- and don't deny it, 'cos it's true. But listen, mate, he's not gonna stop fighting yet." George swallowed. "He's got a whole lot a shit to clean up before he goes, you know. He's not gonna let something silly like his heart stopping prevent him from coming back."

Paul lifted his hand and started chewing on his thumb, a habit he couldn't seem to break. "Look. He's gonna have to have something a helluva lot more worse then his heart fucking stopping before he goes for sure."

"What could be worse than that?"

George shrugged. "I dunno, really. Being shot would be a bummer. But I guess a good bop to your chest or summat'll do 'im off."

Paul shoved his shoulder gently, and George asked once more, "Please, Paul? Sleep?"

Paul looked back up at him, looking doubtful. "You'll wake me up if the phone rings?"

"I'll wake you up before I answer it."

Paul closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. "Mmkay. But I swear if you don't-"

"I will, Paul. Swear on it."

"You promise?"

"Promise."

"Swear on me mother's grave."

"I swear on your mother's grave."

"Now swear on our graves."

"We don't have graves."

"Not yet, anyway," Paul chewed the inside of his cheek. "'Ey, what about the concerts after this? We're supposed to be in Atlanta by now, right?"

"Paul," George sighed. "We'll ask Eppy once you and I trade places with Ringo and him."

"Which will be...?"

"Whenever you wake up. Now go." He said shortly, getting to his feet and giving his friend a hand, which he took.

Paul failed in stifling a yawn. "Fine. 'Night, George. Wake me up in an hour, whether the phone rings or not."

George made a noncommittal sound in his throat, but Paul seemed happy enough with that, and suddenly pulled George into a tight hug.

George was startled for a moment, but then hugged him back, relishing the comfort it gave him.

Paul tried to put everything he felt into that hug, how thankful he was, how sorry he was for hurting him. He knew George felt just the way he did, John was his mate too after all, but here he was letting him beat him up even though he was perfectly capable of fighting back, listen to him yell and basically just lose his shit, and then comforting him and making sure he got to sleep. It was hard to believe sometimes that Georgie was the youngest of the group, given he could be so sensible and they all tended to use him as an emotional crutch at times.

When they finally broke apart, George gave him a grateful smile and a nod. Satisfied that George understood, just like he always did, Paul silently smiled back, then turned over to his bed as George left the room, closing the door behind him.