Pattie ran the tip of her fingers down George's chest. They'd just made love for the first time in well over a month and it had been good, but something was still missing. She wasn't stupid and certainly not gullible enough to believe that George couldn't get it somewhere else if he wanted, but that wasn't something she liked to think about. He always denied it when she garnered enough nerve to confront him with his infidelities. It made her feel like she was going mad, and she could only wonder how things had changed so between them, how they had gone from that happy, bright-eyed couple, smiling from the back-seat of that limo on their wedding day, to whoever they were now. Pattie still adored her husband, but she was beginning to doubt he felt the same way.

"It's over," George suddenly whispered, a sad twinge of finality in his voice. Pattie tensed up in his arms, a feeling of dread washing over her at his pessimistic words. It couldn't be over, she thought, panicking, it just couldn't, not like this, not so quickly!

George was oblivious to his wife's inner turmoil, sighing as he stared at her neatly tidied high heel shoes visible in the open closet. He was positive that he couldn't last much longer in the band. The heavy atmosphere of the studio sessions, fraught with everything that had been said and with everything that hadn't, was becoming too much for him to bear and he wanted out. He wanted to make music on his own terms, feeling creatively stifled. He planned to record all the tunes he'd come up with during his time as a Beatle and that had been rejected by John, Paul and George Martin. He'd prove to them that they'd been wrong but more importantly, he'd prove to himself that he didn't need them.

Pattie watched her husband's face intently, seeing the pain, the anger, and the bitterness she'd become familiar with over the last two years played out on his bearded face. She clung to him tightly, wrapping an arm around his waist and burying her face against his shoulder. She would do everything in her power to keep George and for a fleeting moment, the thought of them having a child so he wouldn't be so quick to leave entered her mind. Early on in their marriage the doctor had told her it would be difficult for them to have a baby, but not impossible. As the years passed, she was beginning to doubt that it would ever happen.

"John was the first one to seriously want to leave, you know. They talked him out of it somehow. Couldn't let that sort of announcement hurt the sales of the latest album." A bitter chuckle escaped George's mouth but Pattie relaxed, suddenly understanding what he was talking about. George wasn't leaving her, he was talking about the band. Of course. She felt guilty for feeling so relieved, but she had no idea idea of she would've done if George had indeed been asking for divorce.

She didn't want to end up like Cynthia, shunned by the Beatles' inner circle. Pattie liked Cynthia although she'd always seen her more as a mother hen than an actual friend, and she still harboured a bit of guilt for not reaching out to her after her separation and divorce from John. If George was ever to leave her in the way John had left his wife, in such a publicly embarrassing manner, Pattie had morbidly mused to herself that she'd probably put on that diaphanous Ossie Clark dress she owned, and jump off Beachy Head to her death.

Shaking herself out of such dark thoughts, Pattie pulled back and stared at her husband's striking profile. "What will you do now?" George thoughtfully rubbed his beard. "Well, the band is still together... So I s'pose I'll do whatever I please, won't I?" he replied, curtly. She sighed, too easily recognising the dark and unwelcoming look that flashed across his face. She just wanted him to be happy again, missing his playfulness and humour. "People think of me as an economy-sized Beatle —"

"That isn't true!" she argued, knowing her words would fall on deaf ears as George climbed out of their bed, slipping inside the bathroom and closing the door behind him. Pattie didn't understand, the only person who could was John. They'd talked for hours and hours, sharing private things, sharing their insecurities and fears for the future, in all confidence. But now George didn't even have that anymore, and he refused to think that he'd be able to find it with anyone else.

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John lowered the newspapers he had been reading, letting it slip through his fingers and rest on his knees. His messy eyebrows were furrowed, a deep wrinkle of displeasure appearing between them, short-sighted eyes staring vacantly at the white carpet underneath his bare feet. He didn't move as the newspapers slid from his knees to the ground, the bold headlines "Paul McCartney announces Beatles break up" even more striking against the paleness of the floor.

Yoko picked it up and came to sit next to him, almond eyes intent as she skimmed the article and then looked up to him. She didn't say anything for a second and John was grateful for it, trying to find his breath. "It's just you an' I, then," he finally stated, his voice low. She had a sort of shudder, folding the newspapers with excessive care and throwing it on the white table. "Do you think it will be enough?" John turned to look at her, surprised. "What?" Yoko reached for the pack of Gitanes they shared, lighting one slowly. "Do you think I will be enough, for you?" John considered her for a few seconds, baffled. "Of course. How can you say that?" She shrugged, tapping her ashes against the tray daintily.

"We knew this was coming," John tried, and Yoko finally met his eyes. "Are you okay?" John paused to think about it. "I'm pissed. Paul groped all the limelight, as usual. Attention whore is what he is." Yoko titled her head to the side carefully. "I don't think he meant to." It was John's turn to shrug. "I don't care." He got up briskly, looking for his shoes. "I feel... debased?" Yoko took another drag from her cigarette, nodding at length. "I suppose that's normal, John. Everything is different, now. No turning back." John hastily slipped on a pair of socks, and then his shoes. "I need..." something stable. Something that was always there.

He grabbed his keys, relieved when Yoko didn't try to stop him. "Don't go and see him," she said, softly. "You will argue." John turned around, eyes wide behind his round-rimmed glasses. "What?" Yoko nodded towards the newspapers. "Paul. If you go to see him now, you will argue," she explained patiently. John shook his head. "I'm not going to see Paul." She watched him disbelievingly, but didn't ask. "I'll be back for dinner. Don't wanna miss yet another brown rice stew, now..." He grinned, catching a glimpse of Yoko's half-amused, half-offended face before he closed the door behind him.

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Driving to George's was a longer ride than it used to be now that he'd moved to the enormous mansion that was Friar Park. John didn't take his driver though, speeding and breaking his own way towards the house, parking in front of the wide public gardens that surrounded it. How very, very George. He stomped past the idle guards that stood there and they recognised him, touching their hats respectfully.

Spring was everywhere and the flowers were in full bloom, colours startling to his eyes and tickling his nose. He rang the doorbell and shouldered the door open, stepping into the corridor and pushing his hair out of his eyes. It was slowly growing longer again, a little unruly after having been shorn completely a few months before. "Anyone there?" he called, wondering how he was even supposed to find George in such a huge house. Perhaps he should have rung before coming.

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George snorted, starring at the headline splashed across the Daily Mirror. "He times these things to the fuckin' letter, doesn't he?" he commented wryly, using John's turn of sentence on purpose and running a hand down his bearded chin. "Isn't it what you wanted?" Chris slipped her hand on top of George's, giving it a firm and supportive squeeze. A hint of a smile briefly appeared on his face. "I suppose it is."

"Why are you upset, then? Wish you'd beaten him to the punch?" she asked, clearly amused. "Maybe." George played coy, causing them both to laugh.

He stared at the woman sitting across from him at the kitchen table. Chris O'Dell had proven to be great company to have around. They weren't sleeping together, but George was positive that it was only a matter of time. From the first moment he'd seen her walking the halls of Apple, he had had to have her. He'd thought he was getting there when she'd eagerly accepted his offer to become his personal assistant, but she'd turned him down so far. She was nice though, and a damn good assistant, so George was content just to be her friend for the time being.

"You're above all that," she added after a beat, slipping her hand off of his. He raised a thick eyebrow at her. "Am I?" The sound of the doorbell interrupted the flow of their conversation. George looked over his shoulder to ask Pattie to answer the door but she was no longer leaning against the counter sipping on her cup of tea. He hadn't even noticed when she'd left the room. It was relatively easy for him to shut out the rest of the world when he connected with someone, and Pattie had a special tendency to merge into the background, these days. He stood up. "Wonder who that could be?"

Chris followed him out of the kitchen. They had to go through several doors and to walk through endless corridors to get to the front of the house. Friar Park, set up by its former owner, the eccentric Sir Frank Crisp, definitely wasn't suitable for everyday living. He pushed the last door open and stepped out into the hallway, spotting John glancing through the window, looking a bit lost. Chris hung back as George walked over to him, not recalling that she'd ever seen John without Yoko by his side.

"You've read the paper, then?" George asked, John looking up and squinting in his direction in a friendly way. "Why, can't I juss visit me old mate with no ulterior motive, 'cause I like 'im?" he drawled, smiling as George pulled him into an affectionate hug. He patted George's back and smiled to Chris from above his shoulder. "'lo Chris." He leaned against the wall as George let him go, wishing they could talk alone but not rude enough to tell her to bugger off.

She smiled warmly at him. "Hello, John." She refrained from drawing attention to Yoko's absence, sensing that they needed to talk alone. Nodding to them, she slipped out of the hallway without another word, to see where Pattie had gone off to.

"I read the paper." John looked into George's eyes from up close, trying to read him. "Can I have my first cup of tea as an ex-Beatle with you?" he asked, keeping his voice amused, raising his eyebrows. "I'd be honoured," George replied with a bittersweet smile, reaching out to squeeze John's shoulder. "Come 'ead." He led the way to reach the kitchen once again. There was a cold kettle of tea on the stove from breakfast and George turned on the gas cooker, allowing it to heat up. "I always thought that when it'd end, you'd be the one to do it," he stated thoughtfully, turning around.

John shot him a wary glance from where he was sitting, drumming his fingers against the table. "I wanted to. You know I wanted to," he replied, almost reproachfully. "But Klein told us to shut up, so we did." He had a little snort. They were all beginning to double guess themselves about hiring Klein. It had seemed to be a good idea at the time, but things were getting messier than ever. He pulled the issue of the 'Daily Mirror' George had been reading towards him, his fingers worrying the limp paper next to Paul's photograph.

"I don't think he even did it on purpose, you know." Paul's words had been ambiguous, and possibly misinterpreted, but the result was the shame. George snorted, clearly disagreeing and not believing for a second that Paul did anything without thinking ten steps ahead. John pursed his lips, shaking his head. "That's a bit hard to swallow comin' from the prince of PR, but I think they got him this time." His eyes darkened and he pushed the newspapers away, petulant.

"Or perhaps he did plan it. I don't even know anymore." He glanced at his mate from above his glasses, looking tired of a sudden, making George want to go to him and take him in his arms, having to remind himself that things weren't that way anymore between them. He felt that it had to be harder for John than anyone else; he'd been the one to start the band and it sure felt like there wouldn't have been a Beatles without him.

"Come and sit next to me?" John finally asked, gritting his teeth as soon as the words were out, feeling stupid but also realising what the urge to see his mate that day had been about in the first place. George smiled softly, trying to put John at ease as he joined him at the table, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. He didn't say anything for he believed that sometimes, saying nothing at all was better. Words weren't always needed.

John sighed but relaxed a bit, leaning into the offered touch and non-judgemental kindness. George was one of the last constant things in his life. He had always been there and John wanted to believe that he always would be. John had been burning bridges with his past consciously and meticulously for a while, following Yoko into the unknown. And now the band was over and he didn't feel so confident about what he was supposed to do anymore.

He had plans, he'd run forward as he always had, Yoko by his side instead of three mates this time, and he knew it would work, knew it would be better, full of a new and genuine energy. "It's just that..." He sighed through his nose. George slipped his hand from John's shoulder, listening to him intently. "I knew this was coming. I knew it was coming for a long time. I juss can't believe it's here, you know? It feels odd." He played with the newspapers. "Bit like I think I should've felt after me divorce."

"It's also liberating though, isn't it?" George asked, his voice slow. John nodded numbly. "We're all free to pursue our own interests, musical or otherwise, without being lumped together." He tried not to sound too animated about it, mindful of John's feelings. "It is odd." George looked down at the newspaper. "The four of us have been together for eight years, shared so much." John hummed, pressing his shoulder against George's in an unconscious plea to be grounded. "Yeah. And now it's over. Just like that. Didn't think it would be so easy." He pushed the newspapers away. "It probably won't."

"Remember when we thought we were finished in 66' because of those Christ remarks you made?" John threw him a glance that meant do you think I could ever forget that? and George shook his head. "This is sort of like that, except we're ready for the end this time. Or at least more prepared for it." He rubbed his beard as he looked at the collection of newspapers that cluttered the kitchen table, seeing John frown from the corner of his eyes. "It's not the same, though."

They stayed still for a few minutes, their water boiling unhurriedly in the background, leaning against each other in the quiet of the kitchen, staring at the tiles before them blankly. Faints notes of music were suddenly heard, probably Pattie playing some record, and John looked up with interest. "Ritchie told me you were 'aving a new studio thing set up?" he mentioned, hoping to change the subject, scratching his stubbly chin.

George nodded, a look of pure childlike excitement gracing his features. "Yeah, a sixteen track studio." He stood up, going over to the stove and turning the gas cooker off. "I can give you a tour, if you'd like," he proposed, placing the reheated tea onto the back burner. "I could even give you a proper tour of Friar Park, we never got 'round to doing that." He paused. "If you're feeling up for a nice walk?" He grabbed two clean mugs and poured them both a cup of tea, handing one to John, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah, sure." John took the cup and the offer for a change of mood, smiling. "I'd like to see yer sixteen track studio." He blinked and hid a grin into his cup, wondering whether that actually sounded dirty or whether his mind was just filthy to begin with. "Perhaps not the full tour, eh. I've seen the gardens, they're even bigger than Tittenhurst's. But ya know. The bits you like." He got up, taking his cup with him and waiting for his friend to lead the way.

George nodded and scooped several spoonfuls of sugar into his tea, stirring it before he licked the spoon clean and tossed it into the sink. "This way, then." He grinned, walking out of the kitchen. "I've done some more renovating since you've last visited, but I'll take you to the studio first." He walked down the long stretch of an hallway with John by his side, blowing on the hot tea and taking a small sip.

"Geez," John complained after a few seconds, George leading him through corridor after corridor. "It's no wonder the house stayed empty so long. No one wants to live in a fucking labyrinth." He chuckled, letting his fingers, warm with holding his cup, trail against the wall. John quite liked Friar Park, in all honesty. It was huge and inconvenient, but there was also something nice about it. It had a soul, he reckoned. "Well, no one except a wacky ex-Beatle, apparently."

"There's so much to be done, "George replied. "It's got a lot of potential, though. I couldn't believe they were going to tear it down." He shook his head, sounding genuinely amazed that this piece of property and the grounds that surrounded it could have been lost forever had he missed the slip about it in the papers.

He led John into a gutted guest room that was in a state of newly started renovations. "Welcome to my studio." He grinned, walking over to the window and placing his cup of tea onto the sill. John leaned against the doorway, surveying the mess of plaster, tiles and paint with amused eyes. "We're going to bring the console for the board and things through here," George stated, motioning towards the closed window and taking a few steps forward, "and then we'll probably set it up right here, and have the recording booth there." He pointed in front of him, excitedly. "The equipment will start arriving soon enough. What do you think?"

"Very impressive indeed," John drawled, taking a sip from his tea. "I'm sure it'll be great. Lots of room." He nodded towards the window with his chin. "Nice light." He let his eyes wander on the rubble, wanting to be conciliatory but unable to come up with anything else. An incongruous branch of vine, bright green veined with purple and creeping along the wall from the adjoining room, caught his attention. He pushed himself away from the doorframe, laughing as he stepped into the room next to the studio.

"George, I know you like gardens, but I think growing one inside your house is going a bit too far." George laughed, following John into the other room. "I thought I'd experiment with design motifs," he replied, good-naturedly. "Bad idea?" he raised a thick eyebrow at his mate, who grinned back. "Bit nutty. Nothing too unexpected coming from a daisy-chewing, Krishna-chanting hippie though, I guess."

He smiled and stepped under the eerily lush canopy of vines coming from the ceiling, weeds and small plants apparently living inside the room, coming through a crack in the wall and a badly mended window, a thin layer of soil having spread on the dusty tiles, allowing plants to grow, gripping the broken pieces of furniture strewn about the room firmly and nearly covering everything already. He plucked a small yellow buttercup from the windowsill and slipped it through the top button hole of George's jacket. "T's nice, though. What're you going to do 'bout this?"

George looked down at the flower with a smile on his face, meeting John's eyes and feeling his breath catch in his throat. Being close to John still did things to him, a tingling low in his chest and the urge to kiss him making him blush. John's eyebrows inched up a bit as he caught the glint in his eyes, looking surprised and perhaps a little wary although he didn't lean away. "I don't know," George replied, thinking more of John than of the actual question. He had no idea what to do with these feelings he still carried around buried somewhere deep in his heart.

"Well," John started carefully, well-aware of the double meaning of the conversation, "I don't think you should worry too much 'bout it. It is what it is. T's not bad." He leaned back against the dusty table behind him, testing its sturdiness before hopping on top of it, sitting up between the vines creeping there. He patted the worn wood next to him, inviting George closer. "Let's not argue about it, eh?" He paused and added, "anymore," knowing he was making what he was talking about more obvious now.

George nodded, easily understanding. "Do you know what Sir Frank Crisp once said?" he sat up next to John, shoulders pressing together. "Scan not a friend with a microscopic glass. You know his faults, now let his foibles pass." George smiled, looking at his mate, undettered by the midly annoyed look on his face. Arguing with John over the past wasn't something he wanted to do. "I've become more tolerant of others and I hope they will be tolerant of me. It's freeing not to expect something out of someone only to be disappointed."

John frowned, looking away and letting out an unconvinced hum, feeling uncomfortable at the idea of George being so accepting, resigned even, in front of his flaws. John expected things from people. Granted, he often expected too much and was sorely disappointed afterwards, but a state of non-expectation just sounded... boring to him. He stood up, face closed. "That's a load of horsecrap though, isn't it?" he stated curtly, turning around to face his friend. He stepped into his personal space, both hands coming to rest on George's knees as he leaned closer, almost close enough to kiss him. "Isn't it?" he pushed.

George shook his head. "I don't think so." He held John's eyes, trying to stay even-tempered in the face of his brutal mood shifting. He swallowed thickly and resisted the urge to lean in. "It's not." He slipped his hands on top of John's, affectionately squeezing them. George would never stop caring about John. They had been mates before they'd become lovers, they could be mates again. Being a part of something as big as the Beatles had bonded them deeply, almost as if they'd lived several lifetimes together. "Let's not do this, okay?" He rubbed the back of his mate's hands with his thumbs, raising his eyebrows. John tilted his head to the side minutely, considering.

"Let's not do what, mn?" he whispered, drawn to George's mouth like a magnet to its complementary pole, trying not to snap, unsure of whether George meant arguing or kissing. John knew neither was a clever idea. He didn't want to argue with his mate right then, and while he wanted to kiss him, he was wary of what it would feel like, kissing George again, wary that it would be good, so good he wouldn't be able to stop. "You know what." Had this been two short years ago George would have given in easily. Why deny them what they both wanted?

But George was currently in the process of trying to control his sexual desires at large. There were periods of time in which he didn't sleep with Pattie, or any women who came onto him. He was attempting to become as close to his Lord as possible. He wasn't the same person anymore, and neither was his former lover. George knew that if something was to happen between the two of them, he might be unable -or unwilling- to stop it. He didn't want a repeat of the relationship they'd had, carrying on in secret, but neither did he want to go public and he doubted John wanted that either.

"George..." John quietly pushed, fingers tightening on his friend's knees, awkwardly stuck between a rock and a hard place. George held his gaze, not once looking away from the intense stare he received from his mate. Whatever this was, George didn't think it was a good idea. He couldn't take himself out of the moment though, and he realized that he didn't want to. He longed for John to kiss him, wanted that more than anything else. Just to feel the press of John's warm and wet mouth against his own in a soft kiss again, would be the definition of divine. He slipped his hands from John's to grip the other man's waist, guiding him forward.

John let out a relieved sigh and went willingly, leaning in to press his lips to George's. His hands left his mate's legs to cup his head, thumbs stroking his jaw and fingers curling into his long hair, feeling his mate's beard rasp against his own stubble, closing his eyes and losing himself into the feeling. George was warm and pliant under his lips, quite as John remembered, pressing back against him for a firm, close-mouthed kiss that made him weak in the knees.

George was tender, almost bordering on shy, but in truth he had to resist the urge to slide his hands down further as he squeezed John's hips, swallowing dryly. His mate seemed to understand though, and moved close, wrapping his arms around George's shoulders and leaning against him heavily. Things he hadn't felt in years were rising to the surface, his heart beating quicker, the glow of love pressing against his ribcage. It reminded him of the first time he and John had really kissed, down the stairs of that shoebox of a room they'd shared in Hamburg.

John made a quiet noise of pleasure, pushing up and freezing as his groin connected with George's lower belly. The shift in mood was sudden and abrupt, racking through him like a hot wave and he promptly pulled away, looking startled. George stared at him, his first impulse to protest and pull his mate to him again although he'd been surprised by the press of John's hard-on against his stomach, familiar and yet estranged.

Snogging was one thing but shagging was something else entirely, and George didn't want to go there with his mate. He didn't want a sexual connection with John again, his feelings for his former lover far too intense for it to be about sex only. Sex would lead to other things, other things that couldn't be. He closed his eyes, inhaling shakily and licking his lips. He could taste John on his mouth, his mate's French cigarettes and tea. John stood there for a few seconds, eyes clouded, before he sat back next to him, awkward. He didn't want to be apart from George, but he knew being too close was just as dangerous. He sighed and he pressed their sides together again, snaking his arm under George's to take his hand.

George squeezed it back companionably. At a loss for what to say, he chose to keep quiet for a while, before looking down at the buttercup still tucked safely into the buttonhole of his coat. "Why do you think they call it buttercup?" he asked softly, in and attempt to ease the awkwardness between the two of them. John chuckled. "Don't know, must be the colour?" he proposed, leaning in to give the small flower a wiff, his head brushing against George's collarbone in the movement, before settling there for good. George stroked the nape of his neck, tempted to kiss it but knowing better. This would have to be enough. "Must be," he whispered.

"Can't be the smell." John closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to George's neck. "I missed you." His eyebrows furrowed, as if in a bad dream. "I missed you too, John. I've missed us. I miss what we had, but I can appreciate what we have now. What we can have, mate." John hummed, his chest tightening at the idea. "Yes. It's good." He wanted to say more, to say otherwise, but instead he reached to brush his fingers against George's jaw, still able to feel the phantom pain he'd put there not so long ago, even through the beard. "'m sorry I was such a cunt."

George closed his eyes as well, savouring the touch of John's hand against the side of his face. "I was just as much of a cunt as you." John made a noise that sounded approving and George chuckled, not letting the memories of their successive arguments throughout the recent years put a damper on this moment. Their latest fight, physically going after one another, was what stuck out the most. "I have some apologizing to do as well."

He pulled away from John, meeting his gaze, almond eyes looking back at him steadily. "You know. What I said about me and Ringo?" The hazel eyes narrowed a little and George felt his mouth go dry. "It wasn't true, John. Nothing ever happened after Hamburg, it was only once. I only said it to hurt you." He looked down, feeling embarrassed for pulling such a dirty trick.

"I know," John replied, though he looked as if he'd just been punched in the face. George seemed surprised and even somewhat amused at the idea that his mate had known the truth all along. "When you said... I knew you were lying. I was sure you were." John reconsidered and then added, tiredly. "Almost sure." He looked to the side, eyebrows furrowing again, adding lines of worry to his forehead until George reached out and smoothed them down with gentle fingers.

"I didn't mean it either, you know. When I said I'd never loved anyone like I love Yoko." John watched him through the corners of his eyes, looking almost too shy to face him and George felt his stomach turn, thinking his heart might beat out of his chest. To him, he and John had and still shared something special but the thought of his former lover not feeling the same had torn him apart on the inside. Knowing that John had only said it to hurt him put to rest painful, lingering doubts about the one-sidedness of their relationship. He smiled, softly. "Thank you." He reached out, slipping his hand onto John's, squeezing it affectionately.

"Don't know if you should be thanking me," John replied, sounding amused and putting his other hand on top of George's, holding him close. A few seconds ticked away silently as he tried to decide whether to kiss George or not, finally settling for a quick peck to his mate's prickly cheek before he got up, pulling George after him. "So, how 'bout you show me those gardens of yers you were so excited 'bout, mn?"

George grinned, widely. "I've got to show you one of the gardens. Cars are planted there. People just abandoned them and brambles grew over them." He led a laughing John out of the studio. "How're you with a machete? You're going to need it to cut your way through the grounds..."

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"Daddy, catch!"

John looked up just in time to see a small red ball fly in his direction, managing to grab it before it hit him in the face. Julian trotted towards him, looking excited but a bit wary as well. "Oi," John protested, grinning. "Give us a warning, son." Julian smiled, sheepish. "Sorry." John patted his head, giving him the ball back. "T's quite all right."

Julian hesitated, glancing at the newspapers John had been reading and then tugging on his hand. "Can we go and play outside?" he asked, before amending himself and adding, "please?" quickly. John let out an unsure hum. He didn't really feel like going out and running around but he didn't get to see Julian that often these days, and the little boy seemed terribly hopeful about spending some time with him.

He looked across the room to Yoko, who shrugged. "Put your coats on, it's not so warm outside," she stated gently, going back to her notes, preparing a new exhibition. John felt bad about having Julian around at times, considering that he knew Yoko missed her own daughter, Kyoko, quite sharply and that Julian's presence only made it worse to her. Cox was fickle at best, and currently they were at odds, preventing her from seeing Kyoko as often as she'd have wanted to.

But Yoko had never protested to Julian being there, though being a bit distant with him, and that was good enough for John. Julian was growing up into a little lad with thoughtful eyes and a strangely pensive face for his age. He was quiet but smart and John found that, whenever his mood was good enough to bear a kid, he quite liked him.

When he was especially depressed Julian also reminded him of how terrible a father he'd been. Even worse than his own, John thought angrily, and that made it difficult for him to face the little boy. John realised that Julian was still looking at him interrogatively, and nodded belatedly, smiling. "Sure. Can go for a stroll. Bit of hide and seek 'round the lake, perhaps?" Julian's face lit up from the inside with a small smile, and he dashed through the room to get his coat and shoes upstairs. John chuckled and followed him, kissing the top of Yoko's head as he went by. "I'll make tea for when you get back," she said quietly, and he grinned. "And biscuits." Yoko smiled behind her hair. "And biscuits."