Friday came sooner than John had expected it to come, the days passing by in a haze as he worked on the sketch for the McCartney portrait as well as his own art. He spent hours contemplating and perfecting every little line he drew as he sat behind his small wooden desk in his bedroom, which he only left to use the bathroom, to get something to eat or drink, or to do some actual work in the studio downstairs when Stuart would force him to, having little motivation to do that last himself. Paul McCartney was simply a pleasure to draw, his features, countenance, and overall aura being exceptional and diverse enough to give John inspiration for dozens of art works, allowing him to keep envisaging new ideas and images; to keep changing the setting, the mood, the style, and the colour scheme; and to keep tweaking little details and highlight different aspects, leaving him with more unfinished works than any other subject had done in such a small period of time before, even if most of them ended up discarded on the floor. He struggled with the details, every little mistake, however minor, being like a thorn in his eye, which left him frustrated but determined to get it right the next time. His desk was filled with sheets of paper, some still empty, others with gorgeous sketches of the young man on them, and again others that were still unfinished, the last of which he used solely as a reference for the next attempt, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not get it right. Bawled up pieces of paper lay scattered across the floor, surrounding his desk and John himself as he worked.

As a consequence, Stuart was becoming more and more annoyed with him, not knowing who had set off this sudden surge of creativity and inspiration in John's mind, and being both eager to find out as well as irritated at his inability to do anything other than draw, leaving him to do most of the work rather than take his responsibility. He had tried to catch glimpses of John's work to see who his newly-discovered model was, but whenever he came too close for John's liking, he would slide the papers out of his reach, or slap his hand away if he attempted to pick up one of the many balls of paper that lay discarded on the floor. On the rare occasion that he did leave the room, John made sure to lock his door so Stuart wouldn't go snooping around in places where he did not want him to snoop. After a couple of futile attempts, Stuart had given up, insisting that John would tell him by himself after a while, even if John continued to deny this.

At the moment, he was sitting on his bed with his bedroom door shut to provide him some privacy while Stuart finished up some work in the studio downstairs before the start of the weekend. In his lap, propped up on his knees, he had his sketchbook, opened on a fresh white sheet where the beginnings of another sketch of Paul had started to form, the rough lines leaving the impression of the young man sitting in a dimly lit room reading a book, a large and loyal dog lying at his feet. Beside John, curled up against his thigh, lay his ink black cat, snoring softly as she slept. Every so often, while John pondered on his next move, he would scratch her behind her ear or let his fingers run through her shiny fur, making her purr. It was a quiet afternoon, and for a moment the anticipation of Paul's next visit had left his mind, only to return soon after as he heard the clock chime five times.

Feeling less nervous than last Wednesday, John had to admit he somewhat looked forward to seeing Paul again, and was relieved they could do so once more in private like last time. Although he knew it was terrible of him, he had been more than a little relieved when Stuart had told him he would be having dinner with his parents that Friday evening, having been invited there by his mother who had sent him a letter a couple of days ago, thus leaving John by himself for the rest of the evening. He had feared he would have had to tell Stuart about his assignment and his new client, but with Stuart leaving early, he could put that conversation off a few days longer.

At first, Stuart had asked him to join him, hating to go alone, but John had been glad he had been able to use work as an excuse not to come with him, Stuart's parents being two of the worst people he had ever met. His father especially was a dreadful man; he was drunk more often than not, which turned his language foul and jeering to anyone who spoke with him, and he would sometimes disappear for days without telling anyone where he had gone to or for how long, only to come back a few days later, pretending there was nothing wrong. His mother, unsure of how to deal with her husband when he was like that, often turned to Stuart to deal with her frustration, snapping at him and criticising everything he did, even going as far as blaming him for their troubles, while spending the little money they had on expensive tobacco to smoke. It is clear to see why Stuart had bought his own place as soon as he had been able to and preferred to visit them as little as possible.

When he did visit, he preferred to bring a friend for support, insisting that his parents were more polite when someone else was there as well, although John doubted that, having joined Stuart himself a few times in the past, and having experienced no such thing. Stuart had been disappointed by his refusal to come with him this time, but had instead invited someone else along who John felt was a much better choice for him. Astrid Kirchherr was a beautiful young German girl from a good family, about a year older than Stuart himself, whom he intended to marry as soon as he had earned enough money to support her. It would not be the first time she joined him, and was good at handling with people such as his parents. Besides, Stuart's mother in particular did not want to ruin her son's opportunity for a good marriage, and even his father could be considered polite when speaking with young women from good families, relatively speaking that is. Overall, John did not feel as bad as he could have felt about the whole ordeal, but he wished he was not as eager for Stuart to leave as he was.

A knock on the door interrupted his musings, and he put his work aside as he stretched out his legs, not wanting them to go numb from the lack of exercise he had been giving them over the last few hours, before letting out a hum to signal the person behind the door to come in. The bedroom door swung open, revealing a flustered looking Stuart Sutcliffe, who started talking before John had had the chance to say anything about his unexpected appearance, or even to say he could come in.

"How do I look? Fine? Handsome? You cannot see the wine stain, can you? Dot said she had managed to get it out, but I am not so sure yet," Stuart asked as he stepped inside John's bedroom, chewing his bottom lip as he studied his clothes and started tugging at the cuffs of his jacket, straightening it out to make it look neater. Not that it was necessary. He looked very handsome in his dark suit.

"You look gorgeous, Stu. Miss Kirchherr will be most impressed, I am sure."

"Oh, I do not doubt it, but it is not her I am worried about. My mother on the other hand... You know how she gets. Now, as for the stain, I am certain you can still see some light splashes of pink on the cuff, don't you?" he asked, grabbing his left arm to inspect said cuff with intense scrutiny, pinching and pulling at the material as he scrunched up his nose in irritation, a deep frown decorating his forehead.

"Stu, dear, you look great! You are worrying about nothing as usual. I can't see anything and even if there was a stain, it would not matter, for your mother would find some other fault to nag about, as she always does," John said as he ran his fingers through his sleeping cat's fur, offering his friend a calming smile in the hope he would stop worrying so much about his parents' opinion of him. He was lovely the way he was, if only Stuart would see it himself.

"Oh! You're right. I am sorry, John. You know how I get when I need to visit them. It is not good for my health, I swear," Stuart exclaimed with an aspirated sigh as he dropped himself onto the bed beside his friend, feeling his forehead with the back of his hand for dramatic effect, causing his friend to laugh at him.

"Nothing is ever good for your health, or is there?"

"It is true. I am weak, frail... it is a miracle I can still walk if you think about it."

"When are you leaving?" John asked with a chuckle, reaching over to move a lock of hair out his friend's face.

"Soon, if I wish to pick Astrid up on time. She does not deserve this, you know? Such a lovely creature like her should never have to put up with my horrible excuse for a father. Poor child."

"No one should," John said and Stuart glanced up at him and smiled as he rolled over onto his side to pet the still snoring cat, muttering another "you're right" in reply. They sat together for a short while longer, before John rose to his feet and offered Stuart his hand to help him do the same, telling him he should not postpone things any longer and got to Astrid's, to which his friend acquiesced with a whispered curse.

"It will be over before you know, dear. I promise," John said as he pulled him up onto his feet and helped him straighten out his clothes and look presentable again. Stuart huffed in disbelief, but stood still anyway to let John do as he pleased, before both men went downstairs to make certain Stuart would leave on time and not be late. John helped him put on his coat and scarf, urged him to bring an umbrella in case the weather changed for the worse, and even plucked a lovely pink flower from the back garden, which he tucked into the breast pocket of Stuart's jacket for decoration, before he guided him to the door where he said goodbye and wished him good luck. The man started laughing as John started to practically push him out of door, urging him to walk by pressing a firm hand against the small of his back.

"Say, whose portrait is it exactly that you will be working on this evening, because I am getting the strong idea that you might actually want me to leave? Please, don't tell me it is that gruesome Miss Hailey? You know, the one with the annoying giggle that you can hear from miles away on a stormy night in the middle of the December?"

"Stu, dear, first of all, I don't even like women, and second of all, even if I did she would be one of the last girls on my list, as you well know," John calmly remarked.

"Which is exactly why you are trying so hard to hide it," Stuart replied with a wink. When John only continued to give him foul looks in return, he rolled his eyes, "I am only messing with you, John. Just don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Wouldn't dream of it, dear," John said, playing along with his friend's little game, and with that he managed to get Stuart to leave. He waited until Stuart had stepped into the coach he had ordered and had driven out of sight, before he shut the door behind him and hurried back upstairs to get ready for his own appointment, not wanting to be late again like last time, or look as unkempt.

By the time the doorbell rang, announcing Paul McCartney's arrival, John had been pacing up and down the hallway for over twenty minutes, his hands clasped behind his back, wondering why he was feeling as nervous as he was. It was ridiculous, ludicrous that he cared so much about making a good impression on the younger man, especially considering he represented everything he despised in another person, being arrogant, spoilt, vain and dandy-like, with too much money to care for and an ego that would make Napoleon himself blush in his grave. He was too flirtatious for John's liking too, batting those long eyelashes of his and pouting his luscious lips and using that tone of voice whenever he spoke with Dot... the poor girl. He should not care about what Paul's opinion of him was. He should do what Mr. Edwards had told him to do and remain professional and do his job; he should keep his distance from him until the portrait would be finished and then Paul would vanish from his life once again. And yet, here he was with his hair neatly combed, his hands and fingernails scrubbed clean, wearing his best suit that only Mimi had seen once before, rehearsing what to say, in order to appeal to the pompous, yet handsome, young man.

He was being absurd.

Still, he straightened out his clothes one last time, waited a few seconds so it would not look like he had been waiting by the door for him, cleared his throat and took a deep breath, before opening the door, where he was greeted by the man in question. In the distance, he could still hear the coach that had brought him drive off over the cobblestone street, letting him know they were once again alone.

"Mr. Lennon, right on time, I see," Paul said and John knew he was taunting him, but he refused to let it get to him, instead smiling in response as he wished him good evening and stepped aside to let him in, allowing his eyes to sweep over the younger man's form as he moved past him. As soon as John closed the door behind him, Paul started taking off his coat, which he then handed to John without question. John tore his eyes away from him and hung the man's coat away on the coat rack like he had done last time without commenting on it, ignoring the way his fingers were already twitching with the urge to capture the man before him on a white canvas for the rest of the world to admire. Turning back around, he raised his head to lock eyes with him and assert his dominance, but to his disappointment, Paul did not concede and only stared back at him, his gaze unwavering.

"Would you like anything to drink, sir? Tea? Something stronger perhaps?" John asked, refusing to avert his gaze. Paul nodded in reply.

"Something stronger would be nice. It's er... been a long day, let's say."

"Wine?"

"Please."

John nodded in return and motioned Paul to follow him as he guided him towards the door that led through to the art studio. Pushing it open, he motioned the man inside.

"If you would take a seat at our usual spot, I shall get us something to drink so we can get started right away. I have put the sketch down on the easel if you would like to have a look; I have made a couple of adjustments I think you might appreciate," John said and Paul nodded as he did what had been asked of him, disappearing through the door and leaving John once again behind. He let out a deep sigh as he closed the door behind the man, before heading to the kitchen to get them both a glass of wine - he could use one himself.

John took his time as he poured them both a generous glass of rather cheap wine, and put down some of that evening's leftovers for the eats to enjoy if they got hungry, happy that Dot hadn't thrown them out yet as she was in the habit of doing. John did not blame her, though, for she had never had cats herself and neither did she like them as much. To her, they were an inconvenience more than anything, as they would often make her job more difficult by rolling around in the freshly-washed laundry, or jump up onto the bed whenever she tried to change the sheets, and above all they left hairs behind everywhere. But they did not know any better, did they? They were only cats after all, but still Dot had little patience with them, taking to coolly tolerating them as long as they stayed out of her way. It wasn't long before the first of the cats came rushing down the stairs and into the kitchen, smelling the food, which she began to devour the moment she spotted it with a thankful meow. John scratched the cat behind her ear and told her to behave, before he picked up the two glasses of wine he had poured and opened the door to the studio with his elbow. He had intended to kick the door shut right away to make sure none of the other cats would scurry in behind him, but he had been too late, and he cursed as he saw a flash of white hurry between his legs and into the studio.

"Shit. Oh shit," he cursed, kicking the door shut behind him to make sure none of the others would follow the white cat's example, remembering Mr. Edwards rules on cats in the studio and the consequences for breaking them. He followed the cat with his eyes and gasped in shock as he saw her jump onto his client's lap and sit down onto what John could only imagine was a very expensive black suit. Much to his surprise, however, Paul did not react as badly as he had expected him to do, reacting, in fact, not badly at all.

"Hello there. Aren't you a beautiful creature? Your master does not seem very pleased with you being here, you know," the man said in an uncharacteristically gentle voice as he allowed the cat to sniff at his hand, before petting her and scratching her behind her ear, to which the cat responded by purring and rubbing her head against the palm of his hand, demanding him to continue what he was doing, and looking very content with the situation.

"I apologise, sir. She just slipped past me," John explained, unsure if what was transpiring before his eyes was a good thing or not, but figuring that offering an apology was the least he could do. Paul, however, waved his apology away as he smiled down at the cat that had started to curl up in his lap.

"Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Lennon. I have always had a soft spot for animals, especially such beautiful ones as this one here. Is she yours?" he asked.

"Yes. I er... I have the unfortunate habit of taking in strays. Mr. Edwards in particular is not happy about it, though. He does not mind the cats as much, but he does not want them in the studio. The hairs, you see... they get everywhere. And some clients aren't fond of them, so..."

"Barbaric, is it not? How could anyone not like such gorgeous and dignified animals? Does she have a name?"

"Pepper, sir," John said as he walked over to where the man was sitting still petting his cat, and placed their glasses of wine on a nearby side table, "I could take her back to the kitchen if you would prefer?"

"Absolutely not!" Paul objected before John had even finished his sentence, curling a protective arm around the cat in his lap, as if to shield her from her owner, which made John chuckle as he nodded and sat down on his own stool, deciding it would not hurt if Pepper would stay a little while longer. And if Mr. Edwards would notice she had been here, he could always say Mr. McCartney had insisted, leaving him with no real choice. He must understand that. "Pepper is a curious name, though."

"I have another named Salt. She's all black," John explained with a careful smile, and this time Paul laughed, actually laughed, sounding like a giggling angel that could make roses blossom in January and make it snow in the middle of June - magical was the only adjective that came into his head in that moment to describe that unusual sound.

"Well, at least you have a good sense of humour, Mr. Lennon," Paul said, glancing up at him and surprising John once more with a twinkle that lay in his eyes, a twinkle he had not seen there before, and John could not help but feel flattered, somehow the fact that the compliment came from Paul, a McCartney, making it mean so much more to him. Still, he tried to suppress it, not wanting the other man to know how his words affected him, and so instead he looked down at Pepper, who was dozing comfortably in Paul's warm lap, making a continuous purring sound as she enjoyed the attention she was receiving.

"She likes you," he told Paul, who hummed at that, hugging the cat a little closer to him as he massaged her scalp.

"Animals tend to like me. Unlike most people."

"So it seems," John mused, flushing as he realised he had in fact said that aloud, not having meant to. Paul looked up at him in surprise, not having expected him to be quite so frank with him, but he did not say anything in return, which puzzled John, having heard stories of the family, and Paul in particular, having taken offence about lesser things.

"Anyway, shall we get started, Mr. Lennon? We might as well get some work done, wouldn't you agree?" Paul asked instead, and John blinked at him a few times before nodding.

"Yes, that might be a good idea. Did you get a chance to look at the adjustments I made to the sketch?"

"I did, and I must say I am impressed with your work so far, Mr. Lennon. There are some things I would like to see changed myself, but it is a good start, certainly," Paul said and John nodded as he glanced back at his sketch, feeling rather disappointed the younger man did not like it as much as he had hoped after all the time he had put into it. His disappointment must have been evident, as Paul leaned forward a little to catch John's attention.

"Don't worry, Mr. Lennon. I can assure you, I do not often say that to people. I am genuinely pleased with your work," he added and John nodded as he gave him a small thankful smile in return. "Now, what do we do next?"

"I would like to do another sketch, if you do not mind. I'd like to focus more on the details and such things, make it more definite, and it would allow me to become more familiar with your features before we start on the actual portrait," John said and Paul nodded as he sat up in his seat a bit more and looked at him with a daring glint in his eyes.

"Of course. How and where do you want me?" he asked and John forced himself to remain professional and not push boundaries again; of course Paul did not mean anything with that particular phrasing, it was only his own twisted mind that made it look as if everything was more suggestive than it was meant to be.

"The same pose would be fine, Paul. Pepper can stay in your lap if you wish, as I'll be focusing on your facial features the most this evening, so that should not cause any trouble. It is up to you, of course," he said and Paul nodded, but did not move into position as John had expected him to, and instead only looked straight at John, his gaze unwavering as if he were waiting for something. When John finally realised what he was attempting to do, or rather make him do, he felt his cheeks heat up, but before he had thought it through, he had already gotten up and was kneeling by Paul's side. He reached out for him with a tentative hand, but refrained from touching him, waiting for Paul to nod and give him his consent, before took the man's chin between his thumb and pointer finger and started to guide him into position like he had done last time, using gentle touches with his fingertips to manipulate Paul's body in the position he wanted with surprising ease, as he ignored the way his heart was racing in his chest and tried to breathe normally. Once he was done, he stepped away and refused to look at the other man as he shuffled back to his easel, sat down on his stool and picked up a piece of charcoal with trembling fingers, before opening his sketchbook onto a new page to start afresh.

They worked in silence for a while, the only sounds in the studio being Pepper's content purring and the scratching of charcoal on paper. John focussed mostly on Paul's features as he sketched the younger man with more care than last time, wanting it to be as close to perfection as he could manage, and trying not to get distracted by the man's beauty or the fact that his body was still feeling strange from helping Paul to sit in the correct position. He did notice how Paul was struggling to sit still again, but unlike last time, it now only took John the occasional polite correction to make sure Paul retained his pose. It struck John as remarkable with how much ease the man before him followed his directions and orders, allowing him not only to tell him what to do, but also how to sit, how to look, when to breathe, to speak, or drink, and how easy it seemed to be for him to obey, falling almost naturally into the submissive role he was portraying. It surprised him, as he had expected a man of his class and position to be more dominant and to struggle with a role reversal such as this one, but instead it seemed to hardly take him any effort at all.

It was strange and it made John wonder, wonder about things he should not be wondering about when it concerned people like James Paul McCartney if he did not want to risk his or his master's position and name. People like the McCartney's lived a largely public life, especially in a growing city such as Liverpool, where both men and women enjoyed the gossip about such persons, especially when it came to the romantic aspect of their grandiose life. About Paul's brother, Michael McCartney, there was hardly anything the inhabitants of Liverpool did not know, being well aware of all the women who had at one point been a candidate to marry the youngest McCartney son, and it was well known at the moment that there was a certain young lady in London who had caught the gentleman's eye. But about his brother, there was less known information, most especially about his romantic preferences. He was a private man, was well known to be, but to not know of his romantic interests was strange, considering how important the prospect of marrying the man was to some women. John could not remember ever having heard one name being whispered as a potential wife, and although Paul McCartney had a terrible personality, seeing him here now being sweet with a cat, made John doubt not one woman had fallen for him despite his many faults. It was strange to say the least, so strange that it would almost make sense if...

"I am sorry, Mr. Lennon, but would you mind terribly if we took a short break? My body is aching for a smoke," Paul said, interrupting John's train of thought. It took him a while to process what the man had requested, but as soon as he did, he forced himself to look away from him as he nodded, only then realising he must have been staring at him for what had probably been many minutes.

"Yes... yes, of course," he muttered as he put his things aside and reached for his glass to take his first sip of wine, having forgotten about it as he had gotten lost in his work. Paul nodded thankfully at him and stretched himself out, before slumping in his chair, reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket to retrieve a small pipe. Pepper, who was clearly unhappy about the lack of petting she was now receiving, jumped off Paul's lap with an angry meow, and hurried to the kitchen door, where she started scratching at the wood, demanding John to open the door for her. John got up with a sigh, but did as the cat wanted, hoping to leave behind as little evidence as possible of one of the cats having been into the studio, and knowing claw marks would be very telling indeed if Mr. Edward were to notice them.

"You do not mind me smoking in here, do you?" Paul asked from behind him and John turned to look over his shoulder as he shook his head, trying his hardest not to look at the way his plump lips closed around the pipe.

"Not at all, Paul," he said, "Would you like something else to drink? Another glass of wine perhaps?"

"Oh, please," Paul said and reached for his glass to offer it to John, who took it with trembling hands, before hurrying out of the studio and into the kitchen before Paul could comment on it, glad to escape him for a moment, needing to gather his thoughts.

Naturally, he was being ridiculous. James Paul McCartney did not like men. He was just overthinking things again, imagining things that were not there and using that as evidence for his absurd and unfounded ideas. Paul McCartney did not fancy men, and he most certainly did not fancy him, and that was the end of it.

The second half of the evening went better: the cats stayed away from the studio, and the two of them worked in silence as they drank their wine and Paul finished smoking his pipe. The whole room now smelled of tobacco, but John did not mind, enjoying the smell even if it gave him the urge to have a smoke himself. A little less than two hours passed, before Paul spoke up again and decided it was time for them to call it a day, feeling rather exhausted after posing for that long, and John had to agree, realising only then what time it was and how long they had been working, his right arm suddenly feeling heavy. Looking back at his work, he was surprised at how little he had managed to get done, having only just finished the rough lines of Paul's face and neck, and most of the detailed features, all of which still needed some refining before he could work with it. Still, when he showed it to Paul, the younger man was once again very pleased with the progress they had made, making no comment about the speed with which he had been working.

"Shall we meet next Wednesday again? Twice a week ought to be sufficient, don't you think?" Paul asked as he started wiping the white cat hairs from his clothes and straightening them out. John nodded in agreement. From the hallway, he could hear some stumbling, but he gave it little thought, thinking it would either be a cat or two or Dot who was still working, forgetting for a moment she usually left around nine in the evening, meaning she would have already gone home. Paul raised an eyebrow at the noise, thinking it was strange, but made no comment. Once he was ready to leave, John offered him to walk with him to the door and get him his coat, which Paul appreciated, motioning him to lead the way, which John did, opening the door that lead to the hallway, only to freeze as he saw who, in fact, had been making those odd noises. The moment his eyes met Stuart's, his throat constricted, feeling as if he had been caught.

"Stuart! Wh-what are you doing here?" he asked, feeling his cheeks heat up as he glanced at the man behind him, unsure how he would react to their unexpected company, remembering the way he had reacted last time when he had thought someone was coming into the studio.

"John, I-I had forgotten my keys,' Stuart stammered, his eyes snapping from John to Paul and back to John again, clearly shocked.

"Oh, I see... Stuart, this is Mr. McCartney. I'm er... painting his portrait. Mr. McCartney, this is Stuart Sutcliffe, a colleague of mine."

"Good evening, Mr. Sutcliffe," Paul said and Stuart stared at him for a moment, before replying in a likewise fashion.

"I'll er... I'll get out of your way. Excuse me. It was nice to see you again, Mr. McCartney," Stuart said, before rushing up the stairs without another word, leaving a baffled John behind. Once he heard one of the doors upstairs fall shut, he turned back to Paul, smiling apologetically.

"I'm sorry, sir. I did not think he would be here," he said.

"That is quite alright, Mr. Lennon. I actually know him. Or at least, his name is familiar to me. I believe his father had once been a tenant on my father's land."

"Was he? He never told me that."

"We all have things we rather do not talk about. Anyway, it is fine. I just had not expected him. I'll er... see you next Wednesday then, Mr. Lennon."

"Yes, of course. Here, let me get you your coat," John said as he passed the younger man and got him his coat. He helped him into it and wished him a pleasant goodnight as he let him out, watching as he drove off in his private carriage, a strange feeling in his chest. As soon as he stepped back inside the closed the door behind him, he was greeted by a rather upset-looking Stuart.

"What was he doing here, John? Why did you not tell me he, he of all people, was your new client?" he demanded, not allowing John any time to try to get himself out of this conversation, making John frown in confusion.

"Come on, Stuart. I know how much you dislike the man. I thought it would only upset you if you knew, and it seems I was right."

"Yes, of course I am upset! What do you think, John? What does he want from you, anyway?"

"Want from me? Stuart, he does not want anything from me. He is only here for his portrait, which was arranged by his father. Besides, I don't even know why you are so upset. He does not seem at all that bad to me."

"Not that bad?!"

"Yes! I mean, he's not pleasant, per se, but I would not say he is the worst person I have ever spoken to. He seems rather alright to me, though perhaps a little arrogant," John said with a shrug, but Stuart did not agree with that, and waved his arms about rather dramatically at his words.

"A little arrogant?! John, no. You have heard the stories, have you not? You know what this man is capable of."

"Well, what do you want me to do, Stu? I can hardly refuse him my services, can I? Mr. Edwards is counting on me for this. It is not like I volunteered to do this. I am only saying that the stories we have been hearing might have been exaggerated, if not made up."

"John, of course I do not want you to refuse him as a client, but it is ridiculous to assume the stories are not true. He is a manipulative, arrogant brat, John. You cannot trust him. I only want you to keep your distance and be careful around him. This man... you must not underestimate him. You do not know what he is capable of."

"Oh, but you do?!"

"John... please. I am asking you as a friend, please be careful around him. Keep your distance, do your job, but nothing more. You cannot trust him, however 'pleasant' he may seem to you," Stuart all but begged and John considered him for a moment, before nodding, giving in with reluctance, unsure if his friend was right about this, but not feeling much for making this discussion longer than necessary, knowing it was futile to try to change his mind about this.

"Alright. I promise, I will keep my distance," he said and Stuart visibly relaxed at those words, sighing in relief.

"Thank you, John," he said and John nodded as he offered him a small smile, and he watched as Stuart grabbed his things, before leaving without another word, clearly still upset about the whole ordeal with Paul for reasons unbeknownst to John.

That evening, as he lay in bed thinking about what Stuart had said to him about Paul, he could not stop thinking about the way Paul had looked as he had sat in that chair with Pepper in his lap, cuddling her and talking to her in that gentle, high-pitched voice, looking so very different from what John had expected from the stories he had heard over the years. Surely, Paul could not be as bad as people made him out to be? Perhaps Stuart was wrong about him? Sighing, he rolled over and grabbed his little notebook and something to draw with. Opening it on a blank page, he put the coal onto the page and started sketching some rough lines, until he could see Paul looking back at him as he lay in bed, a cat curled up by his side, his large hazel doe eyes looking directly into his. Surely, a man as beautiful as him was not as people made him out to be. People often created demons for their own benefit, after all. Surely, there had to be more to him than what the stories said. There had to be.

A/N: I'm sorry for the lack up updates on this fic. I was really busy with work for university and then I got sick too, so I didn't have much time to write, but at least this chapter is a little longer than usual, so I hope that makes up for it. I'm hoping to post the next chapters every Saturday again, as I had originally planned to do <3