“Sorry?” she shrugged when he glared at her. Paul rolled his eyes and pushed the door to his room open, shoving her in and shutting it behind him. She kicked her shoes off and spun around into Paul’s arms, expecting to be kissed again.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered, the smile melting off her face as Paul settled for staring at her.
“I really did miss you insanely,” Paul mumbled, running his hands up her sides and conveniently under her blouse. “I thought maybe I might have fallen in love with you.”
“Oh,” she murmured after a beat of silence. “Well…don’t be daft Paulie, you don’t love me.”
“No?” He looked up at her, his brown eyes mirroring every emotion he felt painfully. “Really Gabby…I think…”
She slid her arms around his neck, being unusually gentle. “You’re not in love with me.” She smiled “You just love me. I’m not the kind of girl you need, Macca…If you’re going to get all soft on me, we shouldn’t start this up again. Maybe…”
Paul leaned his forehead against hers, cutting her off. “I’m so fucking happy you’re back,” he whispered in a low scratchy voice.
“Me too,” she grinned, pulling his face closer to kiss him.
Paul broke away, his lips red and wet. “And, you’re not going back right? You’ll never leave me again. You’re mine, here.”
She started to tell him that she wasn’t his. But then it occurred to her that she technically wasn’t George’s either…and yet he’d said the same thing. And really…she considered them to belong to her…so she closed her mouth and pulled Paul backwards onto the bed.
“Shut up so we can shag.”
And shag they did; the best sex she’d had in a very long time. After enough one-night stands to last a lifetime Gabrielle was ready for a bit of a stable relationship. Even if it was nothing but stable, he’d always be there for her in anyway she need him to be. Anytime at all.
* * * * * *
George wasn’t sure what time he slunk into bed after Ringo finally gave in and fell asleep on the kitchenette table.
He stumbled down the hallway to the room he shared with John and swore loudly and furtively when he found the door locked. John had that Journalist woman in there. He moaned and turned around to Ringo and Paul’s room. He vaguely wondered where Gabby was but was more concerned with finding a bed to pass out on.
Ringo was taking the kitchen, so George would take his bed. He fumbled with the doorknob and finally, with insanely drunken movements, got into the room. Paul was huddled in the bed farthest from the door, facing the opposite way. George swayed toward that bed and then stumbled backwards onto Ringo’s.
He lay still for thirty seconds before letting himself drop off.
* * * * * *
Gabby woke up and felt the jag lag hit her like a sock full of quarters in the face.
“Uh,” she moaned and rolled into Paul, burying her face in his chest and wrapping her arms around his waist. He looked like a peaceful little boy when he slept. She sighed and tried to drift off to sleep.
Instead she heard the bed on the other side of the room creak. There was a remarkably George-like groaning and whining.
Gabby stared at the ceiling for a moment and then decided hiding under the covers would be for the best. She was shaking like she was cold but didn’t really feel anything but warm.
Maybe because she was naked in bed with naked Paul.
She snuggled closer to him, now feeling especially weird about George being in the room. Paul sniffed suddenly and looked around in bleary just-waking-up confusion.
“Uem,” he mumbled, seeing her peer up at him from under the duvet. “Morning, luv.”
“Shut. Up.” George ground out, thinking it was directed at him.
“Fuck you,” Paul said in a sing-song voice, but it tittered out and he turned back to Gabby. He made a horrified sound without making any sound at all. It was really quite remarkable.
“I’m hungover like hell,” George complained, shifting in his bead, the springs creaking as he did so.
“Um… are you…” Paul put an arm around Gabby, “Planning on having a lay in?”
George didn’t answer. He appeared to have gone back to sleep. Paul watched with wide eyes as Gabby crawled out of the bed and found her clothing. Once she was dressed minus her blouse she started for the door.
Paul lunged forward and grabbed at her wrist. “Wait,” he mouthed. “Just stay for a bit.”
“I can’t,” she hissed furtively. “He’ll know I’ve been in here!”
“No,” Paul yanked her back towards him. Her blouse fell from her hands and wafted to the ground over George’s discarded suit jacket.
“Stop,” she gigged as she was pulled back into the bed and made far too much noise.
There was an ‘uh?” from George’s bed. Paul and Gabrielle stopped playing around and turned, expecting to be in trouble. But George lay with his eyes open and confused, his mouth hanging slightly of its hinge and a blanket up over his shoulders.
“Where’s your shirt?” he asked blankly.
Gabrielle shrugged, her heart pounding. The one thing she lies to George about. Or doesn’t tell him. Just the one. And he’d find out.
She pulled away from Paul and crossed her arms over her chest protectively.
“Well?” George shrugged too, sitting up in bed, the covers falling to the mattress. He yawned and rubbed his shoulder.
She considered her options. George with pants on, expecting her to come snuggle because as his bed friend it was her job to provide snuggle-ing. Or, get back in bed with Paul who wanted to shag quietly under the sheets with George watching.
She slid over to George feeling like the biggest whore on the planet.
“Are you awake yet, Harri?” she asked, running her hand through his dark hair. It was longer then she ever remembered it. There were three levels of hair for George; normal Elvis, like everyone else; long Beatle style, that shocked mothers and really wasn’t all that long at all; and long *long* Beatle hair, when he forgot to cut it and let it go for a while. She liked this best.
He tilted his head into her palm and sighed heavily against her wrist. Gabby’s arm tingled excitingly.
She was very aware of Paul, being all naked and sleepy and turned on and staring at her as George ‘lured’ her into bed. Brother George, luring her into bed. It seemed very wrong and somehow tragic. Perhaps she had been listening to Montana and Trixie too much.
George gripped her other wrist and pulled her forward just a bit while looking up at her from under her lashes. His eyes were still the same beautiful baby eyes, tired and blurry and empty. It was how she had felt sitting in a park slowly dying while Bob Dylan shot her full of drugs.
Gabby closed her eyes and let George pull her down to his level like he was going to kiss her. But a kiss on the cheek seriously would be the sort of thing George would laugh and go ‘bloody daft nit’, so she wasn’t expecting that. He pulled her on top of him, his hands going up over her arms and down her sides to her waist.
He rolled her over to the side and nestled his face in her hair.
A few moments later Paul was up out of bed shoving his legs in a pair of black pants and buttoning a shirt in a rush before fleeing the room.
A sick feeling washed over Gabrielle. Oh god, please don’t let him be doing what I think he’s doing.
