Chapter Text
The kettle whistled low in the kitchen, steam curling into the ceiling while Paul hummed under his breath, spreading marmalade across toast. The morning light poured in through the curtains, warm and golden, and for once the house was still. Almost.
“Daddy, he took my crayon!” Heather’s small voice came first, followed quickly by Julian’s indignant protest from the sitting room:
“Did not! She gave it to me!”
Paul sighed, setting down the butter knife. He turned just as John padded into the kitchen, hair sticking up in every direction, wearing yesterday’s shirt and a stubborn scowl.
“Your kids are at it again,” Paul said with a wry smile, pouring tea into mugs.
John rubbed at his eyes. “Our kids, Macca,” he corrected, yawning. “Can’t go blamin’ me genetics every time they squabble.”
Paul smirked, handing him his tea. “Pretty sure it’s your temper they inherited, not mine.”
Before John could retort, both children appeared in the doorway, Julian clutching a fistful of crayons, Heather with her little hands on her hips. They were mirror images of their fathers—Julian’s sharp eyes and Heather’s stubborn pout made Paul and John exchange a glance that said God help us, they’re ours through and through.
“Alright, come here, both of you,” John said, crouching down. “What’s all this nonsense?”
“He took my favourite colour!” Heather exclaimed.
“I didn’t! She left it on the floor!” Julian defended.
Paul crouched down beside John, resting a calming hand on Heather’s shoulder. “You know what we do when we can’t agree, don’t you? We share. That way no one’s left out.”
Julian crossed his arms. “But I was using it first—”
“Jules,” John interrupted softly, his voice quieter now, the sharpness gone. “You know I don’t like it when we fight over little things. There are plenty of colours in the world. Can’t lose your head over one.”
Julian huffed but nodded, finally handing the crayon back. Heather grinned in triumph—until Paul arched a brow at her.
“And you,” Paul said gently, “maybe next time don’t shout so loud about it. Yeah? We’re all learning.”
Heather sighed, nodding, before slipping her little hand into Julian’s. The two of them trudged back to their colouring books, the conflict forgotten.
John slumped against the counter with a groan. “Bloody referees, both of us.”
Paul laughed, leaning against him. “Better than being rock stars, eh?”
John tilted his head, studying Paul with a softened look. The chaos of touring, the fights, the pressure—it all seemed far away now. Here, it was just them, a kitchen filled with sunlight, and the sound of crayons scratching on paper from the other room.
“Yeah,” John murmured, resting his cheek against Paul’s hair. “Much better.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke, just listening to the kids giggle over their drawings. Then John reached out, threading his fingers through Paul’s.
“Y’know, we’re not half bad at this.”
Paul squeezed his hand. “We’re a family, Johnny. That’s all that matters.”
And when Julian came running in moments later to proudly show them a drawing of the four of them—hand in hand, smiling under a crooked sun—John and Paul both knew it was true.