The days passed slowly as John waited for that following Wednesday evening to come with both a feeling of dread and excitement. Dread, for the large part because he feared what Paul might do if he had indeed pushed it too far with the rule of using first names to address one another - a rule that was utter nonsense and he had only come up with to poke at the man's nerves a bit - and fearing every time when Mr. Edwards called his name that a complaint had been made about him. So far that hadn't happened yet, but John was well aware such a request had been inappropriate of him and felt rather ashamed to have betrayed his master's trust in him like that. Moreover, his master's reminders that the McCartneys were not to be messed with were still strong in his mind, as were the threats made by the McCartney son himself upon leaving. Even the reminder that he had addressed him by his first name as well did little to assuage John's nerves, causing him only to doubt if he hadn't misheard him in the first place.

Yet, the fact that his master hadn't yelled any profanities at him or tried to make him leave, told John no complaint had been made so far, and with each passing day he grew more and more confident that it wouldn't happen and that he was safe for now. He couldn't afford to get fired, not with the situation his aunt was in at the moment, which he knew he should have thought of before he had started to push boundaries and risk his job, but John couldn't help but also feel a little proud that he had gotten away with it, the snobbish twat having deserved it.

At the same time, it was this last that made him feel rather excited for that coming Wednesday evening, wondering how Paul would take if it he were to actually call him by his first name and wanting to see his reaction. He looked forward to do some actual work too; the man's pretty features, he suspected, would prove to be both a pleasure and a challenge to draw, and John looked forward to that, hoping to improve himself and his art in the process and impress the younger man. After all, he was an artist at heart, and he could hardly refuse the opportunity to draw someone like him, considering his usual clients were rather unpleasant-looking with hardly any notable features to speak of - saying they were plain would be a polite understatement. It was going to be a pleasure, that is, as long as the man would keep silent for most of the time.

Rolling over in his little bed, he pulled the thin covers a little higher up to his chin, not feeling like getting up just yet, despite Mr. Edwards having awoken him what must have been about twenty minutes ago. He could hear him in the room above his, stumbling around and muttering things to himself as he packed his suitcases and got ready for the journey ahead. He was supposed to leave today, before lunch, and would not return until at least two weeks later, probably longer, depending on how his work would go. He often had little trips like these, which meant John would be left in charge of the business for as long as he was away. It didn't worry him, however, having done it before, and the job not entailing much, seeing as most of the things he could leave until Mr. Edwards returned. What did worry him a little, however, was that he wouldn't be there for the coming meetings with the eldest McCartney son, not being sure if he could trust himself to remain civil with him and his family. But he had no other choice, as Mr. Edwards had made more than clear.

After a few moments longer of dozing in and out of sleep, John sat up in his bed and stretched himself out with a yawn, before reaching for his glasses on the dresser that stood beside his bed in the little room he occupied, and slipping them on his nose. He ruffled his hair, threw his legs over the edge of the bed and rose to stand, blindly reaching for his clothes, which he had hung from the chair by his desk the night before, and got dressed. He shaved himself in front of the mirror and did his hair, before going downstairs where he disappeared into the kitchen and made himself some tea and eggs on toast for breakfast, the maid having her one day off on Mondays. He sat down at the breakfast table while he ate, keeping his ears perked to hear if Mr. Edwards would come downstairs, ready to rush into the studio itself and pretend to be hard at work if needed. But Mr. Edwards remained upstairs, so John finished his breakfast at his own pace, before cleaning up and joining Stuart in the studio to do some work about an hour later than he normally would.

"Morning, John! Glad to see you've decided to do some work as well. I feared you had decided normal work wasn't worth your valuable time," a scrawny young man greeted him as he stepped inside. He stood by one of the easels, a couple of used brushes in his hand, which was already covered in paint - he even had a smudge of dark green on his cheek. He was small, quite a few inches shorter than John himself, but handsome nonetheless, with sharp cheekbones, well-defined lips, a slender neck, and hair as black as coal. He smiled at John as he waited for a response, and started chuckling when John grumbled a rude remark back at him.

"Cheery as always, I see," he muttered, and turned back around to gather more brushes that were lying around, before walking over to one of the work tables to clean them.

"Need any help with those?" John asked.

Stuart nodded. "Please. I promised Mr. Edwards to have them clean before the weekend, but I forgot to do them. Could you bring a towel of some sort to dry them off with?" he asked as he started scrubbing them clean in a mixture of water and foul-smelling chemicals. John grabbed a towel from the kitchen, before joining his colleague at the table.

"Thanks, John," Stuart said as he took the towel from him, and started rubbing the few dry that he had already cleaned, so John could clean the others and hand them to him. They worked together in silence for a while, both feeling comfortable just being around each other and not saying anything, the only thing they could hear being the stumbling of their master upstairs, the sloshing of the water, and the scrubbing of the paper towels against the paintbrushes.

"A letter arrived for you, by the way," Stuart spoke when they had almost finished their work, and John looked up at him with a surprised hum.

"Really?"

"Yes. I don't know who it's from, but I guess it's from Richard, judging by the messy handwriting. I put it on the mantelpiece for you if you wish to read it."

"It would be nice to know he's still alive. Thank you, Stu," John said, and hurried to finish the last two paintbrushes, before drying his hands with some dry paper towels and walking over to the mantelpiece. An envelope laid on top of it, as Stuart had said, and the address was indeed written in Richard's hand, messy and large, which was more caused by the presumed rocking of the ship on the rough waves of the sea than his own sloppiness. Eager to read what it said, John opened the letter and started to read the whole thing right away, his eyes moving quickly over the page.

"How long has he been gone, did you say?" Stuart asked. "He's been away so long, I can hardly remember wishing him goodbye. The poor lad... I couldn't do what he does, you know, spending day after day with the same people on the same ruddy ship, taking orders of some fat officer or captain, for months on end... Mr. Edwards can be strict, but I would not like to find out what such captains are like if we are to believe Richard's stories."

"Four months, two weeks, and six days... I believe," John muttered in reply as he continued to read the letter. He could hear Stuart's footsteps approaching behind him, but he didn't pay it much attention, Richard's words being much more important to him at this moment in time. When he got to the end of the letter, he sighed in disappointment and folded the letter back up and put it away in the inside pocket of his blazer.

"So? What did it say?" Stuart asked as John turned around, looking rather surprised by John's glum demeanour, his expression hardened and cold. "Not good?"

"Richie says he ought to be back in a week, maybe two. The weather gives them a strong wind, so everything should continue as is planned. It was only a routine trading mission after all, so they do not expect any trouble on their way back," John said, pushing past the older man and back to the work table to put the brushes back where they belonged, ignoring the way Stuart kept staring at him.

"But that is good, isn't it? He must be happy to come home after so long. Seeing Maureen again, before he's being shipped off once more for who knows how long? Hell, seeing us again! You know... his friends," he asked, and John nodded as he forced a smile.

"Yes! Yes, of course. Don't mind me too much, Stu. I haven't been able to sleep too well last night. Say, you're not here on Wednesdays, are you?"

"No. No, I have Wednesdays off."

"Oh, good. That is good," John said as he put the last of the brushes away and moved to sit down in front of one of the sketches he had been working on for a client's portrait. He picked up a piece of charcoal and continued his sketch, being well aware of Stuart's eyes that were still on him, a light smirk pulling at his lips.

"Why's that good? You haven't found yourself a girl to entertain, have you?" Stuart asked, and John laughed at that as he shook his head, giving his friend a firm look from the corner of his eye, his hand not stopping its movements on the canvas.

"Sadly not, Stu. My aunt would be much happier if that was indeed the case though, but I'm afraid I will have to disappoint her once more. It is only work.""

"Perhaps that is her own fault if she keeps holding onto the same improbable hopes and wishes after twenty-four years of having to live with you."

"In her defence, Stu, for her it is only twenty-one years."

"Oh, I apologise. That makes all the difference," Stuart said with a wink and John chuckled as he shifted his focus back to his work, glad to have been able to guide his friend's attention away from his plans for Wednesday evening. He wasn't certain why, but he didn't want to tell Stuart anything about his new assignment and his meetings with Paul McCartney, which in a way was odd. For as long as John had known him, Stuart had shown to harbour a strong dislike for the man, much stronger than anyone else John knew. Where it came from, John didn't know - he doubted Stuart even knew - but it would have been nice to talk to him about him and make fun of the arrogant prick, even just as a way to vent, so he could control his frustration a bit better around the man himself as they'd work on the portrait, but for some reason - a reason, John couldn't quite put his finger on - he didn't want to do that. He didn't feel like listening to Stuart's insults, his vile words of anger and scorn, his cold mocking laughter, or his biting jokes. It didn't feel right. So, for the moment, he thought it best not to bring it up. If anything, it would only agitate Stuart, which wouldn't make any of this more pleasant.

John and Stuart worked diligently for the largest part of the morning, only taking breaks to get something to drink or excuse themselves to use the bathroom, and spent most of the time talking and joking to keep their spirits high as they worked on their respective portraits. To John, it felt good to get some work done, his mind stepping away from the thought of Paul for the first time in the last few days, and instead allowing him to think of something else for a change. It was only when they heard knocking on their front door that they stopped their work for longer than a minute or two. The two men turned to look at each other at the sound, and listened closely to hear if Mr. Edwards would come downstairs to get it, but when they didn't hear anything, John got up from his stool and went to get the door, telling Stuart to stay.

As he opened the door, he was greeted by an older man with greying hair and a wrinkly, yet fallen in face, wearing a top hat and spectacles. His suit was completely black, and he was wearing a long coat. Behind him, John saw a coach with two horses waiting.

"Mr. Edwards?" the man with the spectacles asked, angling his head to the side as he awaited an answer. John frowned at that.

"No, sorry. Mr. Edwards is upstairs. I'm John Lennon, his er... apprentice."

"Oh! That must be Mr. Edwards's coach, John! He did mention they were coming before he disappeared upstairs. I'll go get him," Stuart called at him from inside the house, and John nodded in understanding as he smiled at the strange man before him. Behind him, he could hear the thumping of Stuart's boots on the stairs as he hurried up the stairs to their master's bedroom.

"He'll be right down, Mr....?"

"Barkley, sir. Please, tell your master not to hurry. We have a long ride ahead, so there is no need to make any haste," Mr. Barkley answered, and John nodded again at that. He wanted to say something in return, but before he could think of anything, his master's loud and booming voice came down from the stairs, ordering him to come up and help him carry his luggage down, which made him groan internally.

"Would you please wait here for a moment, Mr. Barkley? He'll be down with you shortly," John asked, and as soon as the man nodded in reply, he pushed the door close, but kept it slightly ajar, so they could open it without much trouble when they'd be carrying the suitcases down. He hurried up the stairs to his master's room where Mr. Edwards and Stuart were, trying to close the last suitcase by having Stuart sit on top of it while the other attempted to shut it. The other suitcase stood in the corner of the room by the bed, with a separate bag with art supplies lying beside it. With a little more effort, they got the last suitcase to close as well, and John and Stuart carried the cases down, as Mr. Edwards followed them, carrying his bag of art supplies, while shouting at them not to drop anything or they'd have to pay for it themselves. Thankfully, and John meant this as he was having it hard enough with the little amount of money he made with his work, they managed to make it down without any accidents or calamities.

They handed the cases to Mr. Barkley, who carried them to the coach, and waited as Mr. Edwards made his acquaintance and they discussed some last things with the driver, which neither of the two young men could make out, the coach being too far away from them. When he walked back to them, they offered him a smile and wished him a pleasant journey.

"Thank you, boys. Now remember, John, you're in charge here until I come back in a week or two, maybe three. And Stu, make sure he does not cause any trouble, would you?" Mr. Edwards said, and John rolled his eyes at that, but Stuart nudged him in the side as a warning as he nodded, so John did the same as him, albeit against his will. He didn't cause that much trouble, did he? "Good, and if either of you need anything, you can always write me. I left the address on the kitchen table, but I assume you two will be fine on your own for a short while."

"Yes, sir. You needn't worry about us. We will be fine," Stuart said.

"I thought so." Mr. Edwards nodded, before turning to John, looking him straight in the eye. "John, could I still have a brief word with you? It's nothing serious."

"Yes. Of course, sir," John said, somewhat confused as to what he might want to discuss with him. Mr. Edwards nodded and shook both their hands and wished them all the best as he said them goodbye, before taking John by his shoulder and guiding him away from the other man. John followed him closely. They stopped just outside the townhouse, so they were out of Stuart's hearing distance.

"John," Mr. Edwards said, catching John's eyes to make sure he would make himself clear. "I know I have told you this before, but please be civil towards the McCartneys. One mistake could mean the end, you understand me?" John nodded as he swallowed the lump in his throat, remembering Paul's warning about him pushing boundaries far too well.

"Yes, sir," he said.

"I know you can do this, John. I just don't want you to do something you might regret. These men are powerful; they could ruin you with a flick of their wrist. Please, do not forget that."

"I won't, sir."

"It's better if you keep a safe distance from them, John. Don't give away too much and don't get too close, you hear?"

"Yes, sir. I'll keep my distance," John promised, feeling a sweat break out on his forehead, but he managed to remain composed and Mr. Edwards seemed to buy every uttered word. He smiled at John and patted him encouragingly on the back, before turning around and walking back towards the coach. When he was close enough, Mr. Berkley opened the door for him and helped him inside, before getting inside as well. Stuart came to stand next to John and together they waved their master off, both with a smile on their face, one genuine, the other forced. John felt somewhat envious of Stuart, wishing he could feel be just as oblivious and light-hearted as he was about the thing with the McCartneys. Instead, Paul was back on his mind again, making him feel restless and nervous. He wished Wednesday would come already, wanting it to be over and be certain he hadn't ruined anything yet. How Mr. Edwards had talked him into this exactly, John couldn't remember anymore, but he wished he hadn't let him.

The last days before Wednesday went by a bit faster than the days before, John being busy enough with his work and keeping the business running; it was always more work than he first anticipated it to be. But he didn't mind so much, the work keeping his mind off the McCartney family and his new assignment. In the evenings, he was often so exhausted that he hardly had any time to think about the handsome snob and fell into a deep dreamless slumber the moment he closed his eyes. Between work, he had even managed to find some time to have dinner with his Aunt Mimi that Tuesday evening, having been wanting to see her again for a while now. He had missed her since he had moved into the small room above the art studio to be closer to work, and it had been wonderful to see her again and see she was doing well enough on her own.

Still, that Wednesday evening did not come as a surprise to him, having been anticipating it for too long to forget what day it was completely. The day went by as per usual: he woke up, got dressed, had breakfast, did some sketching and refining on a few of his works, sorted out the letters that had arrived for Mr. Edwards, and answered what he could, before his first client of the day came in to sit for and inspect her portrait. The client didn't prove to be much trouble, the woman being rather undemanding and easy to impress. Half-way through the sessions, Cynthia came in, a young woman, though almost a year older than he was, from a well-off family like himself, who was also an artist, and the only female student of Mr. Edwards. John had already known her long before that though, having been friends with her for a long time, before his aunt had decided they ought to get married, something neither of them had wanted. They had remained friends of course, but stayed out of Mimi's way, not wanting to get the wrong impression across. She worked little but diligently, focusing on her own art the most, and was great to be around and spent time with. John was glad she had in come that afternoon, the studio being awful lonely without either Stuart or Mr. Edwards around.

He spoke with Cynthia as they worked on their respective works, but for the large part they sat in silence together, both being able to focus better when they weren't trying to uphold a casual conversation about nothing in particular, not wanting to talk about anything of depth with a strange woman in the room with them. The only downside was that this silence gave John enough time and space in his mind to let his thoughts wander, and in this case they wandered back to the eldest McCartney son. He couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to draw him as he worked on the portrait of the woman before him, letting his eyes study her features which he would then try his best to mimic in his sketch, and could hardly wait to see how the first sketches of him would turn out. When he caught himself staring the woman for a few seconds longer than had been needed, having been lost in thought, he quickly averted his eyes, and tried not to wonder what Paul would do when he'd do that while working on his eyes. The man had gorgeous eyes, droopy like a puppy's and with an extraordinary colour, of brown, both light and dark, as well as an array of different shades of green; choosing the colours for that would be a great challenge. He'd try his best, of course, hoping that Paul would like what he would create for him. Would he smile if he liked it? A full on smile, showing all of his teeth as his chubby cheeks would puff up and the corners of his eyes would crinkle? He was only wondering for aesthetic reasons, of course.

After the client left, John and Cynthia sat together, both practising and improving their skills, using the other as a model, as they spoke of whatever came into their mind, except, again, John's new client. He wasn't certain what Cynthia's actual opinion of him and the family was, but he didn't want to find out, suspecting it would not be a good one. At the end of the afternoon, she said goodbye and told him to come visit to have dinner soon, before leaving John alone in the studio, apart from the maid Dot, but she was busy with her own work, so John grabbed a book from one of the bookshelves in the house and sat himself down on one of the couches in the art studio and read for a while, letting himself fall into this different world and escape the current one, even if it was only a psychological escape. It wasn't even fully that, as he kept checking the time to see how long he still had until Paul would show up.

Around six-ish, Dot called John into the kitchen for dinner, which she had made, and John went over to her as soon as he heard her say "food", throwing the book carelessly onto the couch, feeling incredibly peckish. As he sat down, he told her to do the same and join him, eager for a conversation to numb his nerves, but she refused.

"I'm sorry, sir. I still need to clean the bathroom and dust your room. I will eat afterwards, if you don't mind?"

"No. No. Of course not, Dot. Go ahead. And remember, when Mr. McCartney arrives here after dinner, I do not wish to be disturbed by anyone."

"Yes, sir."

"And that includes you." Dot blinked a few times at that, before she pulled herself together and nodded, before excusing herself, seeming rather disappointed with his request. John sighed and decided not to pay it any mind as he grabbed the newspaper of that day and read while he ate, trying not to think of a certain someone that would soon ring his doorbell. As it happened, though, his doorbell rang a lot sooner than he had anticipated. He wasn't even half-way through his food.

"Good evening, sir. Can I help you?" he could hear Dot's voice coming from the hallway, followed by the familiar sing-song voice that spoke in that attractive mixture of posh and scouse.

"I'm here to see, Mr. Lennon, my dear. He should be expecting me," the voice said, sounding flirtatious, and John froze in his seat. It was only when Dot answered in a giddy voice that he jumped up and hurried to the front door to interrupt them, not liking the flirtatious tone in Paul's voice as he spoke to Dot.

"And what's your name, sir?" Dot asked, but John was just in time and placed a protective hand on her shoulder, before the young man at the door could answer her. Dot jumped at the sudden touch and both turned their heads at him in surprise. For a brief moment, John could have sworn he saw a tiny fraction of a smile on the other man's lips as he caught sight of him, but he could not be one hundred percent sure.

"It's okay, Dot. I've been expecting Mr. McCartney. I'll handle it from here, thank you," John said, and Dot gave a curt nod, before excusing herself and going back upstairs to finish doing whatever she had been doing.

"Although I might say he is a tad bit too early," John added once they were left alone, before he could stop himself. Paul's face hardened as he looked him directly in the eye, his expression now much colder.

"I am never too early, Mr. Lennon," he told him, and John offered him an apologetic smile, while cursing himself in his head for already having run his mouth.

"I thought we had said after dinner, sir. But that must have been my mistake then. Please, do come in. Let me take your coat," he said, stepping aside to let the other man and offering him his hand to take his coat from him, in an attempt to be polite and assuage the situation somewhat. Mr. McCartney nodded and stepped inside, but ignored John's hand as he had a quick look around to take in his surroundings, not making any movement to take of his expensive-looking coat - it was probably worth more than what John earned in a year, judging by the fabric and the perfect tailoring to make sure it flattered the man's figure flawlessly. There was not a hair or a stain on it. It took John a second before he realised the man had started talking again.

"We did say after dinner, you are not mistaken. It is a quarter past six. That is after dinner in my books, Mr. Lennon."

"Well, I'm a sorry sir, but I have not yet had my dinner. Would you mind waiting for a minute or five until I've finished? There is tea and wine if you'd like something to drink while you wait." John offered as he looked the other man up and down, feeling rather underdressed at the sight of him in his perfect suit, while he was only wearing a pair of beige trousers with paint stains all over them, and a ruffled white shirt and dark brown waistcoat that had seen better days. Paul was wearing a different suit from last time. This one was of a dark mossy green, with brown lapels, and dark brown trousers. The colours made his eyes stand out even more and made the man overall look warmer and more approachable. That is, until one would raise their eye to the man's stone-cold expression that rested seemingly naturally on his features. The man scoffed at his words, but nodded as he slipped off his coat and handed it to John to put away.

"I suppose I hardly have any other choice. Tea would be fine, thank you. But please, Mr. Lennon, be on time next time." It wasn't a question, so John nodded as he did away with Paul's coat, letting the fabric glide through his fingers, enjoying the incredible soft feeling of the rich material.

"I'll do my best, Mr. McCartney. If you'd follow me," John requested, and guided the man towards the kitchen, feeling how his palms were already sweating from the nerves. He was almost certain that Paul had come early on purpose, to pay him back for the first name rule from last time. But there was something Paul wasn't aware of yet, and that was that two could play that game.

"By the way, Mr. Lennon. If you don't mind me asking, what happened to your rule of calling each other by our first names?" Paul asked from behind him as he followed him on his heels, but John didn't miss the amused tone in his voice, which only proved his suspicions; he was pestering with him. The thought made him grin.

"We haven't started yet, Mr. McCartney. Not until you are seated on my stool. Don't worry."