A/N: I know things may've been a tad slow up till now, but now that she's actually MET them, things should go much faster. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, favourited, and whatnot; YOU'RE ALL AWESOME PEOPLE. Special thanks to Betty Flamingo, for mentioning this in her most recent chapter of 'Good Day Sunshine'. Finally, REVIEW.

They looked at her blankly, and Paul started laughing.

"Nice one, love. Almost had us there."

The others turned to look at him.

"It makes sense, Paul," George whispered. "Think about it."

"Yeah, everything looks all different – the studio was all old, the path is overgrown, and Brian is nowhere to be seen!" Ringo added. "We must be-"

"Impossible," Paul said stubbornly. "We can't be."

"Then how did we get here, genius?" John drawled, smacking his friend over the back of the head. "You have to admit, we're not where we were when the lights went out."

Their young female companion looked at them curiously. "What happened? It might explain how you got here. You didn't happen to walk into a blue police box now, did you? Or find a time-turner?"

"What?" Paul asked, eyebrows raised. He looked around at his friends. "Boys, she's a nutter."

"Like you can talk, Paulie," John jibed, eyes twinkling with intelligent humour.

"Pot calling the kettle black, Lennon. I'm just saying."

"Lads, she asked us a question," George reminded them quietly. "What did actually happen? All I remember is coming back from the bathroom, seeing you three re-enacting the bloomin' French Revolution, everything going pitch black, then . . . then . . ." He looked at their new friend. "Then . . ."

She sighed. She reminded herself that they had more important things on their mind than regular formalities. "Hayley. My name is Hayley."

His smile was both grateful and apologetic. "Then Hayley opening the door, and freeing us. What about you guys?"

John, Paul and Ringo cast each other slightly nervous looks. George rolled his eyes. He knew they'd done something.

"We didn't do it on purpose, see," Ringo said quickly, restlessly twisting around one of the rings on his finger. "It was an accident!"

Paul immediately clamped a hand over his mouth. "What my little friend here meant was that we have absolutely no idea of what could've happened."

John continued the chain by flinging a hand over Paul's mouth. He then said, in a false upper-class British accent, "And what my intellectually-impaired friend here meant was that you, madam, are rather dishy, and we would like to start things over in a much more civilised manner – particularly if that's what it takes to get in your pants." He winked at her cheekily.

"Oi!" George warned, walking up to the entwined three, and slapping his own hand across John's mouth. "Don't scare her off – she seems rather nice, you twat."

Hayley looked at them; Ringo silenced by Paul, Paul silenced by John, and finally, John silenced by George. She started to chuckle under her breath. One of the reasons she loved them was that they had a sense of humour. And she had to admit, with them here, the eerie forest seemed much less intimidating.

After standing still helplessly for a few moments, unsure of what to do, Ringo reached across and pressed his hand over George's mouth. And the look of surprise on the guitarist's face was what made her finally collapse in a fit of hysterical laughter.

Her exuberant guffaws were too much for her body to maintain standing straight, and she bent over her knees, hugging her sides. She couldn't help it – God, they were funny. Her bag slid off her shoulder and hit the ground, its contents exploding out. This only made her laugh harder, and as she attempted to collect everything, her consistent failure was like a silly, silly fuel to a hilarious flame. Her phone slipped out of her hand, and she started to laugh so hard she fell to her knees. Her eyes watered, and tears ran down her cheeks. She looked up at them with her glittering eyes, and seeing their hands slowly slip off each other's faces was the final straw. She collapsed completely onto the ground, rolling around on her back, as the situation fully hit her. Either this was the greatest day of her life, and she was actually meeting the Beatles, or she was lying broken and bloody on a road somewhere after a nasty encounter with a bus.

She found this utterly hilarious, and continued to laugh, lying on the gravel.

The four boys looked at each other with mischief lighting up their eyes. John, closely followed by the others, started tip-toeing towards her, exaggerating each fairy-like step by hoisting up their knees as far as possible and holding their hands delicately up near their chests. As the girl rolled on the gravel with her eyes scrunched up in laughter, they surrounded her, and Paul held up three fingers.

Then two.

Then one.

Her laughter was just dying down as the tickling commenced. Her peals of laughter started up once again, and she writhed around, trying to escape. Finding herself encircled by the mop-headed demons, she tried to sit up.

"Okay, okay! That's . . . that's enough!" She wiped the tears off her face using Paul's thin black tie, which just happened to be flapping around in her face. He was about to object, but soon thought better of it. John had done worse.

The four Beatles stood and looked down at her. They had been so preoccupied with their predicament, they hadn't really looked at her.

Hayley had very pale skin, a result of living in England, being a dedicated student, and being semi-nocturnal, and though bordering on being pallid and unhealthy-looking, it seemed a good companion for her bright blue eyes, ruby-red lips and delicate, feminine nose. Her eyebrows curved elegantly over her eyes, though usually they were contorted into some weird expression or another, as she seemed to use them just as much as her vocabulary when communicating with others; whether it be a person, her reflection or a frozen computer. Her wavy russet-brown hair had started to fall out of its loose ponytail, and was falling down her back and over her face. Her fringe had been mussed up during her fit of laughter, and instead of lying dead straight down to the tops of her eyes, was splayed up at all odd angles. As she grinned up at them, they noticed her brilliant smile, matching the gleam of the three earrings she had in each ear; two in the flesh of each lobe, and one up the top of each ear.

Their eyes then travelled further down her frame. Underneath a thin, white, cotton t-shirt with "First Rule of Musicology: B# = C" printed on it, her electric-blue skinny jeans hugged her legs tightly, and all four boys approved highly of the effect, noting the black Converse on her feet. Some fashions never die.

She sighed contentedly, and ran a hand through her hair. Her nails were painted bright pink, and she wore a pretty mood ring on the ring finger of her right hand, and a thin, golden watch on her left. The slender, black hands were pointing to half-past three.

"It's rude to stare, you know." She stood up suddenly, making them scatter like wide-eyed pigeons. She started to grab her things from where they'd fallen, hunting through the weeds at the side of the path for her map of London. After three years, she still managed to get lost, and so her old room-mate had bought it for her one Christmas. Cheap ass.

"I guess they don't make birds like they used to," John said, trying to ignore any admiration he might have felt. The others soon followed suit, and acted as though they hadn't openly gawked at her.

"Seriously, Ringo. What did you do?" George asked, forcing his eyes to stay on the other Beatle, and not allow them to drift over to the brunette foraging further along the path.

The drummer's gaze flickered over to John and Paul, who then looked to each other. A silent conversation quickly taking place, they turned back to Ringo and nodded.

"Well, we were in that room an awful long time, as you know," Ringo explained. George nodded slowly. "So we got bored. We started playing around with that fancy new mixing-desk stuff – all those buttons, you see – and then . . . I may have . . . spilt some coffee on it." He looked down at the ground and shoved his hands roughly into his pockets. Hayley looked up, and felt a stab of pity for him. He looked like a young schoolboy getting in trouble with his favourite teacher. She just wanted to run over and engulf him in a big bear hug, but thought they might think it a tad weird. Or creepy. Or both.

"Spilt? More like poured, ya big buffoon!" said John. "I mean, Jesus, any more and you'd've needed a bucket."

Paul sniggered briefly. "Or a wheelbarrow."

Ringo sighed, and looked up at George. "Anyway, sparks started flying up at us, and it made this weird sound, like, and then it just kinda . . . fizzled out."

"He broke it!" Paul cut in. "He, Ringo Starr, the famous drummer of the legendary, and quite fantastic, Beatles, had just single-handedly wrecked the most advanced, fancy-pants piece of recording technology in the country!" He glared at the embarrassed boy, and scowled in disapproval.

"And so-" Ringo started to say.

"Off with his head!" John cried, starting to strangle him. "Off! Off it goes!"

George started to chuckle, and Paul cracked a smile. Ringo pretended to thrash about, gurgling out in protest, and going limp. Once John was satisfied he'd suffered enough, he crowed in victory, and thrust his hands in the air. "Le guillotine conquers yet another villain!"

Hayley found her dog-eared map, and walked back over to them. She was extremely puzzled. "I don't mean to sound awfully sceptical or anything, but how did spilling coffee in a recording booth lead to all four of you travelling in time? And why were you even drinking coffee in the first place? I thought you Brits preferred tea." She picked up her bag, and waited for an answer.

"Well, I got a taste for coffee when we went to Hamburg. Such a buzz!" Ringo shook his head in disbelief. "Couldn't get through a day without it, me."

"Weren't the only thing he got a taste for over there," John said slyly, touching his fingertips to his thumb, bringing it to his mouth, moving it backwards and forwards and poking his tongue into his cheek.

"Hey!" George said, hitting him. "What did I say before? Be a good boy!"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And the time travel bit?"

It was Paul this time who answered her question. "Well, John was the executioner, and Ringo was the criminal, so I had to be the lawyer."

She raised an eyebrow. "They had lawyers during the French Revolution? Bet they were the first to go."

He smiled at her, and continued. "Well, me uncle's a lawyer, so I know some stuff, and I managed to get a rather good deal for poor old Ringo here."

"His dazzling good looks and incredible charm also helped," John added.

"He had one chance – to try to fix it."

George was one step ahead. "And that was where things went wrong?"

The other three didn't need to say anything, just looked at him.

"I found a panel underneath the desk, and cracked it open," Ringo explained. "And then I-"

"Stuck me hand in and pulled wires at random?" Paul suggested, the corners of his lips tugging up slightly as he crossed his arms.

Ringo sighed heavily, rolling his eyes. "Well, I'm not an electrician, am I?"

"Which is why you had to get the chop!"

"Oh, give it a rest, John."

Paul finished the story succinctly. "And so he failed dismally, was put to death, and George walked in, the thing started humming, and the lights went out."

"Bada bing, bada boom – time travel," John marvelled, looking up at the burnt-orange sky. "We were in that room for hours, you know, before you arrived."

"Yeah," George muttered bashfully, feeling guilty for not showing any gratitude any earlier. "Thanks for that."

Ringo and Paul nodded in agreement. "Thanks, love."

She just shrugged, and hitched her up her bag. There's only one thing you can say when the Beatles thank you for setting them free from a room in which they time-travelled. Of course, she didn't know what it was, so she improvised.

"Don't thank me just yet – maybe I'll kill you and use your skin to make upholstery."

For a second, there was a look of panic in their eyes, but they soon realised she was kidding.

"Hey, Paul?" Ringo asked. "You said you heard a humming from the machine-thing, right?"

"Yeah," he replied slowly. "Why?"

"Well, it's just that I didn't hear anything," Ringo said in confusion.

"Don't worry, you're a drummer – your ears aren't a hundred percent, poor chap."

"Hey!" Ringo cried in mock insult. "I have very good ears, I'll have you know!"

"Well, they're much more normal than your nose, if that's what you mean," George taunted, a wide grin splashed across his face.

Hayley's heart swelled as she looked on at their brotherly exchange. In only four years, they would be starting to grow apart, and in eight they would decide their differences too great to continue working together, and go their separate ways. But for now, they needed, and loved, each other. It was one of the sweetest things she'd ever seen. She began to imagine shrinking them and taking them home as pets, when she realised they hadn't thought of something.

"What are you boys going to do now?"

"Huh?"

All four looked up from their weird embrace; after the insult, Ringo had grasped George in a headlock, Paul had grasped his arms tightly behind his back, and John had started to tug on his hair. "Bad boy, bad boy!" John laughingly chided, pulling the poor guitarist's head from side to side. He let go, and looked up at their new acquaintance.

"That's a fair question, oh fair maiden. What d'ya wanna do, lads?"

Paul thought for a moment, chewing his lip. "Explore. Just for a bit."

"Sleep. I'm knackered," Ringo said, yawning on cue.

"Get something to eat," George said, rubbing his stomach. "We haven't eaten since breakfast."

Hayley shuffled from foot to foot anxiously. She knew how this would go – she'd dreamt of it enough times. Either they'd decide to go back to 1962, or they'd decide they needed someone to show them around the city. And she really was in a rush to get home. She had to get ready for graduation, no matter how many Beatles she came across.

John turned to her with a smile, the shadows from the swaying braches dancing across his handsome face. "I do believe we need a guide, ma'am, if you'd be so kind." The others turned their gaze on her, waiting to see her reaction to his request.

"Took your time 'bout it, didn't you?" She cried, exhaling deeply in relief, glad that they weren't just going to walk out of her life. "Well, let's get going, then."

Without waiting for their consent, she started marching along the path briskly. After a few steps, she heard the coarse sound of their feet on the gravel, and felt a warm feeling ooze through her as she realised that they were following her. They actually needed her.

And she absolutely, definitely, certainly, one-hundred-percent, mustn't abuse her new power over them.

She grinned maniacally, not letting any ounce of self-control filter its absolute craziness. It wasn't like they could see it, anyway.

After a few minutes of relatively uneventful silence, they reached the gates.

"How did you get in here?" John asked, walking up to the rust-flecked metal bars and scratching at them with a fingernail.

"Tunnelled," she said simply, stepping onto the bottom horizontal bar of the gate and pulling herself up. Again, she tossed her bag onto the other side, wincing slightly as she heard her headphones hit the pavement. Climbing to the top, she swung one leg over, and paused, looking down at them. Maybe they didn't get her sense of humour.

"I'm in rather a rush, see, and hunting around for the hole, cleverly concealed as it is, isn't half as time-wise as just climbing the bleedin' thing."

All of them, except stony-faced John, had a blend of admiration and surprise mottling their young, attractive features. It was obvious they didn't think her capable of climbing fences, as her healthy curves didn't exactly scream athlete.

She sighed exasperatedly, and dropped down onto the other side. She picked up her belongings, and waited for them to join her. As she stood there, she looked around the street once more, admiring the picturesque beauty of each blossom in the gardens of the quaint cottages. It was no surprise something like time travel had occurred here – the street radiated magic.

She heard four heavy thuds behind her, and whirled around. A grin spreading across her pretty face, she spread her arms wide apart, and said with a laugh, "Beatles, I bring you . . . the future!"