A/N: So, here's the second of today's chapters. HOPE YOU ENJOY! Please read, and then let me know what you think! It would mean THE WORLD to me! Wow, I've used a lot of exclamation marks! Until next time, dear readers! :D

Hayley cast a final glance around the apartment, double-checking that she'd done everything she needed to. There were freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies in the kitchen for The Beatles' breakfast, some coffee for Ringo, a note with emergency contact details scrawled in her flowing handwriting, and a pile of spoiler-free, carefully selected movies, with instructions on how to work the DVD player. She made sure she had her music, her mobile was fully-charged, and she'd remembered to put in all three pairs of earrings.

The sun was just rising, and, from the rays slipping in between the curtains, the sweet litter of human puppies were illuminated in a way only the morning sun could. She gazed affectionately at the sleeping boys. After their serious moment last night on the balcony, John had slipped back in between Paul and Ringo, worming his way into the middle of the pile once again. She almost laughed when she saw George's foot smooshed against Paul's face, and Ringo's crotch awfully close to John's hand. God, they were adorable. And hilarious.

She looked down at her watch, and cursed softly. It was seven-thirty; too early to be awake after a day like yesterday. She blew the oblivious lads a kiss, and closed the door quietly behind her.

It was only a short while later that they started to stir. John, exhausted from his late night talking to their host, burrowed underneath the doonas and scrunched his eyes shut, trying to stay asleep as long as possible. Of course, with friends as loving and understanding as Paul, George and Ringo, he didn't know why he bothered.

"Get up, sleepy-head!" George laughed, shaking him. "There are some delicious-looking cookies here, and you won't get any if you don't get up soon."

"Shh!" Paul motioned for him to be quiet. "The less for him, the more for us, understand?"

"Yeah," Ringo agreed, spraying crumbs over the carpet as he wolfed down the delicious biscuits. "They're rather tasty."

"Hey, don't eat them all!" George cried, jumping up off the floor and running into the kitchen.

John started groaning. Paul knelt down next to him. "You okay, John? I heard you get up in the middle of the night. Everything alright?" He spoke quietly, not wanting the others to overhear.

His best friend rolled onto his back, and looked up. "Paul, what happens if . . . if we don't find a way back?" His eyes were bloodshot, and Paul doubted he'd slept much at all. He must've been plagued by thoughts like this all night long. While the other two fought over cookies in the kitchen, he decided to hide his own fears, all the better to comfort John.

"Well, you trust Hayley, don't you?"

"Yeah. . ."

"And she'll do whatever it takes to get us home. Don't worry, Johnny, we'll soon be home again." He ruffled John's hair affectionately. "You'll speak to Mimi before you know it."

John decided to believe him, and suddenly jumped up.

"I believe someone mentioned cookies, my dear fellow. Cookies!"

The four of them were almost finished watching the first movie, Blades of Glory, when the phone rang. Unsure of what to do, George and Ringo pressured Paul into picking up the receiver. John lay on the floor, trying to catch up on lost sleep.

"Hello?"

"Oh, Paul, thank God."

It was Hayley, and a rather stressed Hayley at that.

"Hayley? What is it?"

She was quiet for a moment.

"Hayley?"

"Do you think you guys could help me out?"

"I'll ask." He turned to the others. "Can we help her out?"

"Of course," Ringo assured, as George and a sleepy John nodded in agreement.

Paul put the phone back to his ear. "Yep, we can help. What's up?"

"Well, the wedding's over now. It went really well, by the way."

"Ooh, did you get to play an organ?"

"Yeah, it was so awesome! The marvellous acoustic of the church almost brought tears to my eyes every time I so much as played a note."

"What was the foot pedalling like?"

"It was okay. I've done some before, but I'm still a way off from being proficient at it."

"Cool."

There was an awkward silence for a few moments, as Paul received incredulous looks from the others.

"What?"

"Ask her what she needs!" George cried, as Ringo and John rolled their eyes.

"So, what's the problem, Hayley?"

"Well, I was talking to the lucky couple, and they were saying how wonderful I was and everything, and then they got a call from the people they'd hired to play at the reception-"

"Uh-oh, that doesn't sound good."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Anyway, turns out that the band got into a little accident, and can't make it this afternoon."

She fell silent. Paul guessed why. "Let me guess – you volunteered your services?"

"They're newlyweds! How can you let anything ruin their big day?" she cried.

"And where do we fit in?"

"Well . . . could you please come and play with me? I need a band, and who better than you guys?"

Paul thought it over, and turned to the others. "Should we go and play at some couple's wedding reception?"

"What's the pay?" John enquired, twiddling with an imaginary moustache.

Hayley heard him. "I'll pay you in baked goods. And I'll help you get home."

She picked up on their whispering, and hoped they'd agree to help.

"Sure," Paul said, and she whooped happily.

Ten hours later, an exhausted but happy John, George, Ringo, Paul and Hayley lay collapsed around a large circular table. Waiters and waitresses picked up dirty plates, half-eaten bread rolls, and lipstick-smeared champagne glasses, and cleaners were starting to collect confetti and streamers.

"I love my job," Hayley murmured, resting her head on the table and gazing at her champagne glass. Well, her eleventh champagne glass.

Ringo hiccupped, and George punched him in the arm.

"What was that for?" he cried, rubbing his new bruise.

"I dunno," George smiled innocently. "Your face made me do it."

Paul rubbed his temples. "Oh, shut up, you two. You're cleaving me head in twain, you is."

John hummed to himself, pleased with the gig. He had borrowed a pen from Hayley, and was doodling little creations on the pale flesh of her inner arm which had been flung out across the white tablecloth. The day had gone very well.

After Hayley had given them instructions, they'd cleaned themselves up, grabbed her guitar, and locked up the apartment. Following a written set of directions she'd dictated to Paul, they spent two hours getting lost, wandering around the city, and eventually finding the hotel where the reception was being held. Hayley had greeted them, surprisingly, with hugs, and introduced them to everyone as The Bootles, a Beatles rip-off group. Everyone seemed to believe her, and so it was without any difficulty at all that they'd managed to use some equipment Hayley had borrowed from some of her more musical friends, and start the gig.

Hayley was very careful that they didn't accept any requests. They stuck to songs the 'Bootles' knew, which was essentially just a load of covers and a handful of their own stuff. But overall, the positive vibe of the happy gathering made the party-goers oblivious to what exactly was being played, and there hadn't been any problems at all.

They'd been paid with dinner and free drinks from the bar. As her vision started to swim, Hayley realised that taking the happy couple up on their well-meant offer was perhaps not the smartest of ideas.

"You guys are brilliant, you are," she said, going to grab her glass. George quickly moved it out if her reach. "You're my favouritest band ever, and no one will ever come close to your absolute fuckin' genius."

Being the first swear word they'd heard fall past her lips, they all looked up at her in shock. John stopped drawing, and sat back in his chair with an amused look. She'd drunk more than the four of them combined.

"I mean, seriously. Justin fuckin' Bieber? Gimme a fuckin' break! What'd that little prick ever do to get the same level of screaming as you four? I mean, for fuck's sake – you're the Beatles! What more can I say?" She gestured wildly, almost knocking over her glass. "You're gods, you are. Fucking gods."

She rested her head on the table for a few minutes. After a while, she looked back up. She moaned softly, running her hands through her hair. "George, can I go home now? John? Ringo? Paul? I wanna go home."

Paul and Ringo looked at her with kindness in their eyes, as George wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Yep, Hales, let's go. Have you got everything?"

She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. He was taken aback. "No, I mean I want to go home home."

"Australia?" John asked, drawing looks of confusion from the others. "That's her home. Not stupid Garial Lane, or Oxford, or even England. Just like our home home is Liverpool, 1962. She's as far away from home as we are." He carefully, and very delicately, brushed her hair out of her eyes. She bit her lip as he gazed at her.

"Let's go home, lads. I'm just as homesick as she is."

They quickly agreed, knowing that John was serious when he was serious.

George and John walked her to the hotel entrance while Paul and Ringo collected up all their belongings.

"George, I miss mum and dad," Hayley sobbed, clearly not used to large amounts of alcohol. "I miss Leo, and Alex, and Hayden, and Will."

"Her brothers," John explained. George nodded in understanding, and just held her tighter, feeling tingles spread through him more and more the longer he touched her.

John quickly began comforting her. His fellow Beatle was unaccustomed to seeing him so kind. "Hales, it's okay. You'll be seeing them soon. You've gone three years without seeing them – I'm sure three more days won't kill you."

She looked up at him with wide, round eyes. His words were having the desired effect, and she was beginning to calm down. "But I have this feeling that something's happening. Something bad."

He shushed her, and held her hand. Even in her intoxicated state, she felt something stir within her at his touch. Maybe it was just timey-wimey stuff.

George quickly felt for her other hand, and that was how the others found them; the two Beatles holding the quietly crying girl's hands.

"Let's get back home, shall we?" Paul said softly, as Ringo hailed a taxi, and found success.

George and the drummer helped the girl into the back seat of the black car, as John and Paul hung back.

"Paul, we should try and get back home tomorrow. We'll go back to the recording studio."

"I agree. We'll go first thing in the morning. Is she alright?" Paul asked, worried eyes scanning her through the glass in the open taxi door.

John was surprised at Paul's interest – out of all the Beatles, the left-handed bassist seemed to be the one cared for her the least. "She's had too much to drink. Poor bird isn't used to it, I imagine. She'll be right as rain in the morning."

"You're sure? There isn't something we can do? The poor lass 'as been so kind to us, it's the least we could do." He loosened his tie, and cleared his throat. "Maybe we could take her back with us. Give 'er a tour of the Swinging Sixties, seeing as how she's given us a tour of the . . . what did she call 'em?"

"The Noughties? No, that was the last one. . ." John had liked the sound of that decade.

"The Twenty-Teens?"

"The Tweenies?"

"Oi, you two!" George interrupted. "Hurry up, won't you?"

"Right away, guv'na!" John mockingly bowed, and doffed an imaginary top hat. He and Paul exchanged a final look, and clambered in after the others.

"Garial Lane, please good sir," Paul said politely, stepping into the front seat and sitting next to the driver.

"God, I hate that place," Hayley muttered from the back seat. "Such a dump. And the neighbours are bonkers."

John chuckled, and wrapped her hand in his. She sighed happily, and he felt stupidly proud that he had caused such a sincere reaction. He ran his fingertips over the smooth surface of her pink nail varnish, as she closed her eyes and rested her head on Ringo's shoulder. Ringo smiled, and adjusted himself slightly so she was more comfortable.

George leant back in his seat, and crossed his legs casually. Feeling something brush against his thigh, he looked down to see her hand searching for the one she had been holding onto earlier. Smiling happily, he acquiesced to her silent request, and his hand crept forward until their fingers were once again entwined.

Paul spun around in his seat, and almost laughed. She definitely was an attention-whore when she was drunk. Maybe it was because it was only when inebriated that she knew that no one would refuse her – maybe her sober self buried this knowledge, and succeeded in being more modest.

She definitely was pretty. She was wearing a simple black tunic, with a crisp white shirt and a feminine black bow, tied loosely around her neck in broad black ribbon. She had elegant black high heels on her feet, which Paul had noticed her kicking off while they performed, and black lace tights. The tunic reached to just above her knees, and when he looked closer, he saw that the fabric had faint grey pinstripes running through it. She had a large belt with an ornate metal buckle wrapped around her waist, which he noticed with surprise was quiet petite. He had never realised. At the moment, her shirt sleeves were rolled up, and John's scribbles covered her left arm, like an artistic tattoo. It suddenly hit him that all their outfits matched – they would've looked good on stage together.

With both her hands held by Beatles, and her head being cradled by another, Paul realised that they could definitely work as a family – it wouldn't be the end of the world if they were stuck with her.

Of course, if they were stuck in this time with her, then it definitely was.

The journey passed slowly, Friday night traffic being the most horrendous. They didn't say much, but then again, they didn't feel the need to. After twenty-four hours, some alcohol and John's words back at the hotel, it had finally sunk in for all of them that they were quite a long way from home. They were starting to miss their families, their homes and their world. It seemed so far away, though technically they could go to Liverpool and visit the houses they grew up in. It just wasn't the same. It was like saying they were going to visit their family, and then visiting the cemetery. Which they could also do in this century.

Hayley had completely blacked out by the time they pulled up outside the apartment block. John leant over and politely rummaged through her pockets for the cab fare, as the others thanked the driver and got out. Paul opened the door on the other side, and slid the unconscious girl out, before John even had a chance to undo her seatbelt. Paul then carried her to the front door, as Ringo let them in, and George carried up all their things. John looked on as the handsome young man cradled the pretty young girl, and felt a slight twinge of jealousy. He quickly told himself to forget it; it was just the champagne. Paul was simply trying to be helpful.

"Hurry up, John," Ringo called. "Some of us are tired, you know."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," John muttered, walking up the gravel path sullenly.

Paul rolled his eyes. He wasn't dumb. "God, man, if you're going to act like this, then why don't you just take her?"

John tried to mask his surprise. Trust Paul to know how he was feeling. "What're you talkin' about? Isn't it Prince Charming who always carries the sleeping beauty across the landing, and gently lays her on the soft cover of her duvet, kissing her softly on the forehead and wishing her sweet dreams? We all know who the Prince Charming is here, and it's definitely not me."

There was an awkward silence as the three others stared at him. Hayley muttered something in her sleep, and wriggled in Paul's arms, burrowing her head against his chest.

"You're right potty when you wanna be, you know," George said.

"Oh, shut it, Harrison," John said, wishing things were plain and simple, in a black and white similar to their outfits. "I was just foolin' around. You know there's no point fallin' for a bird this side of nineteen-seventy."

"Not to mention you're engaged," Ringo chimed in, feeling as though someone had to stand up for poor old (and probably dead) Cynthia.

John had evidently forgotten this slightly-important fact, as he fell silent. The others knew it was a touchy subject, and George gave Ringo the evil eye for bringing it up.

Shuffling Hayley around in his arms, Paul walked to the stairs and climbed them two at a time. The others followed, and held the door to her apartment open for him, after crossing the little landing.

"Right, lads," John said, as though the conversation downstairs hadn't taken place. "I call dibs on the bathroom first."

"Wonder what you're gonna use it for," George said, a smirk playing with the corners of his mouth.

John playfully slammed him against the wall, and held a finger threateningly near his throat. "Oh, you did not just say that, Georgie-boy."

George just looked at him cheekily and grinned his signature crooked grin.

"That's it!" John started to poke him, harder than he probably intended. The younger boy tried to squirm away, and managed to flee into the lounge room, where their bedding still littered the floor. John chased after him, and they started to laugh. George, being a klutz, tripped over his own feet and fell on a mattress.

"Gotcha!" John cried, lunging at him, and jumping on top of him. He pinned him against the mattress, and started punching him softly in the stomach and chest.

"John!" Ringo cried, wandering out of the kitchen with a crudely crafted peanut butter sandwich in one hand and a glass of water in the other. "What's he done now?"

George, between guffaws, gasped for breath, and pleaded with the other two. "John, get off! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" When that didn't work, he turned to the other. "Ringo, help me! He's- He's bonkers!"

Ringo carefully placed his meal on the dining table, and leapt onto the floor. "You're a swine, George!" He didn't hesitate in helping John traumatise the poor boy, and started to flick him on the head, as John continued to pin him down. The young lead guitarist was tortured for many long minutes, laughing all the way.

After a while, they lay on their backs, staring up at the plain white ceiling, and caught their breath. All previous hostilities had been forgotten, and they were brothers once again.

"Lads, I don't wanna marry Cyn. She's nice and everything, but. . ."

Ringo and George exchanged a knowing look. They weren't surprised. "We know, John. But you have to."

John scowled, and crossed his arms. "Just cause she's preggers. I don't even reckon it's mine, you know."

This, however, was news to them. "What?" They sat up and stared down at him. He continued to look past them, up at the damp-affected ceiling.

"Well, we did it once, sure. It was rather nice. But she was just another bird, you know?" He let his arms fall to his sides, and rolled over to face them. "And then, a few weeks later, she comes up to me, and tells me she's pregnant." Worst shock of his life, it was. "Then, she starts saying she wants to get married, so the baby will have a family." He exhaled deeply, and ran a hand through his hair. "So, being a savvy fella in these matters, I asked her two things; if there'd been any others, and how far along she was."

"And?" Ringo asked, feeling sorry for his friend.

"She's not a real villain – she admitted there'd been others. And she said that she was two months along."

"Wait," George said, holding up a hand. "You spent the night together, and she was already knocked up?"

John looked at him sadly. "So it would seem. She is preggers, so I didn't want to upset her too much by asking."

"And you proposed and everything?" Ringo asked, fetching his sandwich.

"She can't do it alone. It's the right thing to do," John said, impressing the others. "It could so easily have been mine anyway. And maybe having a wife won't be too bad – someone to come home to, and everything."

George and Ringo looked at him with newfound respect. "I guess you don't have to do it, if you don't want to, Johnny."

John just rolled onto his back once more, and stared silently at the ceiling.

"Does Paul know?"

He scoffed. "Of course he does. Nothing gets past him. Ever."

They lay in silence for a few more moments. They could hear the hum of traffic from outside, and muffled voices from the apartments downstairs.

"Actually, where is Paul? And Hayley?" George said suddenly, sitting up quickly. "They came in, didn't they?"

John leapt to his feet. "And the hunt commences!"

The three of them started searching through the apartment for the other Beatle and their new friend. They looked in her study, but it was empty. They poked their heads in the kitchen, but it only held traces of peanut butter. They peered under the couch, but couldn't see anything. They then knocked softly on the bathroom door, and Paul answered quietly.

"Come in."

John, followed by George and then Ringo, gently eased the door open and slipped into the cool, tiled room. He stepped carefully over to where Paul lay, leaning against the bathtub with Hayley in his arms.

The once sweet-smelling room was filled with the nauseating odour of sick, and she had some dried on her chin. There was some on the toilet seat, where Paul hadn't been able to get her to it in time, and Ringo and George quietly left the room again, both to give her privacy and to hunt down some cleaning materials.

Paul looked up at John, and John felt a stab of guilt. While he and the other two had been laughing and joking around, poor Paul had been in here by himself holding her hair back from her face as she spewed into the toilet bowl, and then cradling her before she fell onto the hard tiles.

"I'm sorry, mate. You should've really called out for help."

Paul rolled his eyes. "There really wasn't any need. I had it under control."

"Oh yeah, obviously," John said sarcastically, waving a hand towards the vomit near the toilet.

Paul ignored him. "I think it's over now. There's nothing left for her to bring up."

"Gees, how long was she at it?"

"Fifteen straight minutes."

John was silent.

"Still, I think she should sleep with us tonight."

"What?" John exclaimed. "Have you no respect for her virtue, Macca? How do you think she'll thank you in the morning? With a punch, that's what."

Paul was surprised he was opposed to the idea. "It's just safer for her, and one of us is bound to wake up if she starts to feel sick again. I didn't mean, you know, sleep-with-her, sleep with her."

John cast a look down at the girl passed out in his best friend's arms. "Fine, if that's what you think will be best for her."

Paul smiled. "It is."

"Just as long as she doesn't puke on me."