Okay. So the past few months have been hectic and overwhelming and FanFiction didn't really fit into my schedule. I hate how adults think they have it so much worse than kids, sometimes. It really pisses me off. But, you know. I'm here now. Trying to write. Again. So…have a read? Thanks :)

George was never a huge fan of secrets. Keeping them, sharing them, having them kept from him…usually he just avoided them. However, these days, secrets were consuming his life.

It started when John came for a visit, only hours after he found out he had a ghost taking up quarters in his house. George had been straightening things around the house—having finally gotten dressed—with his friend trailing behind him and bombarding him with questions.

"So, how often do you bring home girls?"

"Do you usually clean the house in your tighty whities?" (That was the point where he had crossed the room and slammed the French doors to his bedroom in her face.)

"Who's your best friend?"

"Do you even have a best friend?"

"Do you like your band mates?"

"How about me—do you consider ME your friend?"

All of these George had ignored with amazing perseverance. And he also figured something out about Catherine; she could carry an entire conversation by herself, not even needing him to answer questions she fired off at him. It was both frustrating and amusing.

She was just going off on another tangent when the doorbell rang.

"So you're, like, what? The youngest out of all of them? Yeah, I'm the same age as Paul, I know that. Because my little sister—Clare—she's pretty much in love with you, and she always told me that I'd be perfect for Paul because we're the same age. Actually, I'm a little older than him, since my birthday's in May, but I don't really count that as older, you know? OhmyGod…if I'm staying here with you, does that mean I'll get to see Paul? Like, a lot? Do you and him come here and sing and play? And Ringo? Holy fuck, I LOVE Ringo. Does he—"

DINNNNNNNNNG-DONNNNNNNNG

George immediately dropped whatever he was doing and rushed to the door, pulling it open before Catherine could utter a single word. There stood John, George's band mate and one of his best friends. However, his face paled at the sight of him and the guitar case he held in his hand.

John noted several things about George upon seeing him. First off, his hair was disheveled and looked like it hadn't been washed in a while—uncommon. Very uncommon. George was a hair guy, and he always took care of his. Always. And then he saw the paleness of his face, which popped brightly against his nearly black hair. That actually didn't surprise him too much; it was George, God of the Snow-People, after all. Besides all that, there was the way his eyes were constantly shifty, looking behind himself to check if—well, John didn't really know.

A startling thought occurred to him—maybe George had a woman over.

"Oh, I hope I'm not interrupting anything," John said, a smile sliding over his lips as he casually shifted his weight to try and see around George. George, too, moved within the doorframe, blocking it entirely with his thin, lanky frame.

"No. I was just…you know…around." He got a distant look in his eyes for a moment, then snapped back to reality. He looked at John in the eye for the first time, frowning. "You want to come in?"

John nodded, then stepped past his friend into the bright apartment, looking around curiously. Everything looked tidy and clean, but almost too much so. Like he had made a pointed effort of straightening up this room to give the appearance of general normalness.

John was suspicious.

George watched nervously as John picked his way through the room, examining everything. Catherine sat on the couch, her eyes fixed curiously on John, who was completely oblivious to her. Once he appeared to be satisfied, he turned back to George, tossing the guitar on the couch. Catherine jumped out of the way just in time, and it hit the cushion with a dull thud. She looked up at him, her eyes wide. They both pretty much had the same question in their minds: What would have happened if it touched her?

"Got anything to eat?" John asked, already striding into the kitchen.

"Yeah," George said, wide eyes on Catherine, "there's something in there, I think."

John came back out, carrying a box of Corn Flakes and munching on a handful. "What are ya looking at, mate?"

George took his eyes off hers and glanced at him. "Er…nothing. There's a stain on the couch or something."

John didn't believe him. It was very apparent. George was acting strange and he felt like it was his personal duty to dig the truth out of him. That was why he quickly walked over to the French doors that he knew led to George's bedroom, through them open, and peered inside.

Unlike the rest of the flat, this room was destroyed. The bed covers were thrown up, hanging halfway off the bed; clothes were strewn all over the floor and drawers were halfway open; items from the living room were tossed unceremoniously; what was more, George's face when he opened the doors said it all.

"Aha!" John exclaimed joyously, turning around and staring brightly at George. "Where is she? Did she just leave? Or—fuck, you dog, is she still here?" He grinned devilishly. "Wild night, eh?" He gestured around the room.

If it was possible, George's face paled even further. He looked down at his feet, contemplating what he should say. If he told the truth (that yeah, she was still here, but she was kind of transparent), John would think that he was either crazy or tripping hard. And it wasn't like John was exactly sensitive, and would let him off easy. No, he would make fun of him for his words until the world ended. And George just wasn't up for that.

"Shut up, John. There's no one here, there was no one here last night. There hasn't been a bird here since—"

He stopped, because he was coming to the part where the truth would threaten to spill out of his mouth. Instead, he closed his eyes and rubbed his hand over his face and through his messy hair, the stressfulness of the situation weighing down upon him. Why him? Why was HE chosen to get haunted by this girl—this girl that he hardly knew?

"Ah. That girl." John's excited face slipped into something slightly more sympathetic, and he stepped out of George's room, closing the doors behind him.

"Her name was Catherine." The words surprised George himself. He wasn't really sure why he corrected John. For all intents and purposes, it was better that John not know that he even knew her name at all.

But how could he forget her? How would John expect him to know nothing about her after everything that happened yesterday? No, it was okay that he admitted this small truth; that he knew her name. After all the press he had to dodge after sitting with her in her last few moment—or, rather, what he assumed to be her last few moments—everybody knew her name. Catherine Scott, the girl mysteriously tied with George Harrison.

John nodded, moving to the couch and starting to put away his guitar. "You hardly even knew her. Right?" George wasn't really listening. He was more fixed on the fact that Catherine was now standing by the window, her arms crossed, staring at him pointedly.

"What? Oh, yeah. Well, I guess."

"Why'd you do it then, mate? What was she to you?"

Catherine scoffed audibly, her eyes narrowing. Thankfully, John seemed completely oblivious to this.

"I don't know. I mean…she was just some bird, I guess." He glanced over at Catherine, who was still glaring at John. "But we got along good. And then I saw her get hit." He shrugged, his quiet natured preventing him from getting too descriptive about what was really going on in his head. "I just reacted."

"You got along good?" John repeated, stressing each syllable skeptically. "She was just a random shag, how would you know? Not unless…George, you didn't talk to her, right? Like, really talk to her?"

His words broke Catherine's trance. She turned and looked at George, questions dancing in her eyes. "What is he talking about?"

George was feeling a little overwhelmed, unsure of whether or not he should answer both of them or…? "Uh, I don't know," he said weakly.

"You don't know whether you talked to her or not? What the fuck, George? What do you think? I mean, you either talked to her or not, it's not like that." John studied him, taking in his guilty features. "You did. Ahh, Jesus. That's why this is bothering you so much. You never get to know them."

Her mouth fell open, and she took a quick step towards him. "You bastard! Oh, my God. I thought it was just a rumor…I never imagined it to be true…." She looked back up at George again. "So, you're just like him? You just sleep with women and aren't even allowed to talk to them?"

"No, I—"

John interrupted, hoisting his guitar onto his lap. "You're so young and innocent, it's almost endearing. But honestly, you don't know how much you annoy me, mate. I can't deal with this all the time. First with Ringo—fucking Ringo, you have no idea what he put me through when he found out about this whole thing with you and that girl—"

"He's SO insensitive of you," Catherine interjected at this, and John kept jabbering on while George turned and looked at her. "I never knew he was such an asshole. I mean, I've seen interviews and shit—I knew he was a little sassy. But seriously, what the hell? He's not kidding, is he?"

George didn't like her talking about John this way. She truly didn't know him, or what he'd been put through in his life. Sometimes, he could be a little much, but he had a brilliant mind and a good heart (somewhere in there). And he was George's best friend. Shouldn't that tell her something—anything at all?

"She wasn't even that good looking, Georgie. I mean, sure, she had that whole curvy-sex appeal thing going on. But, did you see her nose? Turned right up, like a little piggy."

"WHAT? Holy—who does this guy think he IS? Are you just gonna stand there and let him—"

"STOP." John and Catherine both obeyed, staring at him and wondering what his little outburst was about. He seriously felt like his mind was going to explode any second now. "You need to shut up and play your guitar and you can just…leave."

John furrowed his brow. "George, mate…there's only one of me here. Make up your mind; should I stay or should I go?"

George let a long stream of breath out of his nostrils, frustrated and tired and just bleh. However, when he looked over at Catherine, he found that the patch of floor next to the window was completely devoid of anything human-like. This was good. This was progress. He answered John in a considerably lighter tone.

"Yeah, er, sorry. I know." He sat down next to his friend, pulling his guitar from beside the sofa and propping it up in his lap. "So, what do you need that dear Paulie couldn't provide you?"

John took a deep breath. "Well…"

Three hours and twenty-one minutes later, George closed the door on an elated John, who had just finished a song and was off to throw it in Paul's face. Paul would probably pick it apart and tear it down, the reconstruct it and call it a day. But that, sometimes, was Lennon/McCartney. That was the Beatles. That was George, never getting any credit for anything.

He turned around, sighing, and headed straight for his bedroom, where he felt a nap was in store before anything else happened later tonight. He was dead tired; it turned out that worrying and secret-keeping were quite exhausting. Who would know?

The French doors flew open at his touch, and he dragged his feet towards his untidy king sized bed, long for the fluffy duvet and the cool sheets. He was just about to throw himself forward when something he hadn't noticed before cleared her throat.

George jumped. In the approximate spot that he was going to launch himself at, Catherine lay on her side. Once again, he noted the curve of her hip through the clingy, soft material of her dress. He followed the smooth paleness of her leg all the way up; beyond her thigh, the hill that was her hip, the sudden deep dip that was the valley of her waistline, the curve of her breast, the oval shape of her head, the auburn curls that spilled over her shoulder. He shuddered, looking away. It wasn't right to look at her like that anymore. She was dead. Gone. This wasn't Catherine.

Not that he had ever really knew Catherine.

"I thought I said to leave," he said quietly, looking down at her overlarge feet.

"I thought I told you I can't," she responded in the same tone.

He took a deep breath, looking up and shaking his head. "This can't…you have to. I have a life. I have a band and friends and I'm gonna have different women in and out. You have to understand that I hardly even know you."

She stared at him intently, sitting up and drawing her long legs out in front of her. Her tongue peeked out of her mouth and moistened her plump lips absentmindedly. George was struck by how odd this all way; all these simple functions, performed by someone who wasn't really there.

"I can't leave," she repeated, not meeting his eye.

He watched her soft features, afraid to say the next words. George was not a mean person. He was generally very sweet, almost too sweet sometimes. But he knew when he had to stand up for himself, he knew when he had to say what was necessary. And now was one of those times where he couldn't let it slide.

"I'm so sorry about what happened, Catherine. But if you can't leave…we're going to have a problem."

Finally, after a long time, she looked up at him. Her blue eyes looked tortured, and he knew that if she had a choice in the matter, she would have never came here at all. So what was keeping her here? Why was it so important that she haunt his apartment? Would she follow him if he moved? His head suddenly felt like it was going to explode again.

"George?" she asked, her voice forlorn, her face right about to crumble.

"Yeah?"

She inhaled deeply, licking her lips again. "You can call me Catie."

Just as he opened his mouth to respond, she disappeared. Poof. Gone. And that was when he knew that Catherine was here to stay.

Sorry—Catie.

Well. I was pretty happy with this chapter, I must say. I got to throw my favorite Beatle in there—John Lennon forever—and maybe he didn't have the NICEST things to say…but…well. That's our John. Anyways, I'm sorry that this took me so long to put out, but once again, I've been busy. And now that school's out in the city, it should be easier for me to write. Thanks for your support, guys. Review!