AN: I'm not really sure when it starts snowing in Northern England. I tried doing research, but it varied greatly. Some people said December, some said November. I didn't know. I live in one of the most climatically unstable places in America, so my understanding of weather is a bit shaky in the first place.

Also, it's getting hard to write this because every time I have to look something up about Brian, I get so distracted by this man. I love him.

Ages: Ringo - 4 years, 5 months; John - 4 years, 2 months;
Paul - 2 years, 6 months; George - 1 year, 8 months (20 months)

December, 1955

Brian woke to faint yelling. He rubbed his eyes and looked to his clock. It was too early for him to be up. It was too early for one of the boys to be awake.

He laid in bed for a minute more, hoping whichever boy it was would tired himself out or give up. He forced himself up when he realized it was actually a terrible plan.

Brian stumbled through the hall, unsure which foot went when or where, and opened the bedroom door on the other end.

George stood in his crib, shaking the bars and yelling. He didn't look upset or sick. He stopped immediately when he saw Brian and smiled. His stretched his arms out in front of him, towards his foster father.

He thinks he's so innocent, Brian thought.

Paul held his hands to his ears and gave the boy a dirty look. John had tried hushing George, standing at his crib and sticking his hands through the bars (apparently it hadn't worked). Ritchie was curled under his covers, not a hair visible.

"What is it, George?" Brian sighed.

He picked up the small boy and patted John's head.

"Go back to sleep," he said to him.

John turned on his heel and returned to his bed in a huff of drama.

George, wide awake and eager to be active, tried bouncing on Brian's hip. The recurring ache residing in his pelvis spiked, and he groaned.

"George, stay still. Please," he said.

George obeyed. He smiled again.

Brian waited until John had laid his head back on the pillow and pulled the cover to his chin to leave the room. They looked at each other as though John completely understood Brian's struggle of having to take care of a child before sunrise.

"We're gonna lay down in my bed," Brian said, walking down the hallway. "And we're going back to sleep."

He made it back to his own bedroom and settled George down before laying next to him. He tried holding the wiggling toddler close. Maybe if they were quiet enough, George would fall back asleep.

Brian had another hour before he had to be wake up. He prayed he would sleep for at least half of that.

But there was no such luck.

His alarm rung after tossing and turning, and he reached over George to turn it off. George, still bright-eyed and grinning, climbed on top of him when he noticed him sitting up.

"Let's get your brothers," he mumbled.

Paul had a wad of blanket in his mouth, soaked from drool. Brian made him open his mouth and discovered teeth budding on swollen gums. He lent his collar to the toddler until he was sitting in his highchair and nibbling on the ear of a stuffed bear picked up from the sofa.

Ritchie and John, bleary-eyed, climbed on their own seats, and George, in a non-unusual giddy mood, bounced in his own high chair.

"Stay still," Brian chided, forcing a smile.

He opened the fridge, and the longest morning in years continued.

Brian's head was resting on his desk, atop papers. He was partially in sleep, straddling the line between awareness and dreams. He roused at a knock and his secretary's blonde head peaked in.

"Mr. Epstein, you have a visitor," she said

He raised his head and blinked. He could perhaps shoo them away if they weren't important enough.

"Who?" he asked.

"Your father."

Brian straightened like a rod and began fixing his papers and hair.

"Show him in."

Anne slipped out of the room and closed the door. A moment later it opened again, and Brian's father walked through.

Brian stood and adjusted his jacket. He smiled and reached out a hand.

"Good morning," Harry said, shaking his hand like he would a business partner.

"Good morning," Brian said, trying to keep his voice clear.

His father chuckled. He sat down. "Did you not sleep well?"

Brian rubbed his face, taking his own seat again. "It was a long morning. George woke up early, and I couldn't get him back to sleep. Paul's fussy and teething. I had to look for his ring for half an hour, because, after three months of the boys being there, there are still boxes that need unpacked. And Jane was late this morning. It threw off the day's schedule."

Harry nodded, then leaned back in his chair. He didn't say anything for a moment. He only watched his young son.

"Well," he finally said. "I would say you need to start rolling with the punches."

Brian's shoulders drooped. He was expecting sympathy.

"I know how you are," Harry continued. "You have a plan for everything you do. But babies don't stick to any plan."

"I've noticed."

"You'll get to used to it. You'll adapt. " He smiled,more wrinkles appearing around his old, gentle eyes. "When are we going to see them?"

Brian shrugged. "Whenever you wish."

"Your mother is excited. This is the closest she's gotten to having grandkids."

"Well, they're not my sons."

"She knows. She still thinks it counts."

Brian smirked. "I'll have to make them presentable."

He imagined combing their hair and dressing them up. Everyday he strived to make them little gentlemen, but they always managed to mess up their hair and outfits. It was their nature, Brian assumed. Not every child grew up like him, with a desire to be neat and acceptance to being dressed up.

"We'll discuss it later," his father said. "How's business?"

Brian pulled out a folder of papers. He began reciting sales and new inventory. His mind drifted to the boys occasionally. When his father droned on about family business and delivered the same speech Brian heard a hundred times, he would wonder how he was going to get the boys ready to see his parents. They were naturally endearing children. They charmed everyone they met within seconds but could get rowdy. It would take strategic planning.

Brian didn't bring up how the subtle increase in sales the past month had been partly due to him, buying records for the boys (they really did enjoy the music). He allowed his father to beam and congratulate him, afraid that if he confessed he would be met with judgement. Besides, it wasn't as though Brian was the sole reason for the increase.

They discussed new artists and new investments. Brian, again, lost concentration when he thought of the boys' interest in a particular singer. She distracted them well enough when Brian needed both of his hands. He suggested carrying more of her work to Harry, who hummed in response.

"It would be a risk I'd be willing to take," Brian said. "If it doesn't sell, we'll just have to pull it."

"A risk during the holidays?"

"We'll have higher sales regardless."

"Yes, but customers aren't going to buy an album of someone they've never heard of if it's going to be a gift. People this time of year know what they want before they walk in the door."

"The compensation -"

"Will not be enough when we could add a new album of a popular group."

Brian was quiet. He wanted to protest further. Why not give another artist a chance? Why not give an unknown more exposure?

Why not give him more freedom?

Brian pulled more papers from a folder. He ran a hand through his tamed curls.

To make the day even worse, it was raining when Brian left his office.

Brian had to force his eyes open when he blinked. His hair had lost its manageability and stray curls fell across his forehead. His mouth and nerves begged for a cigarette from the box he finished at lunch.

He pushed open the front door.

Giggles filled the house and a warm glow came from the living room.

Jane sat with Ritchie and John on the floor with Paul in her lap. George laid curled on the chair next to her, by her shoulder, fast asleep.

She looked at Brian when he walked in. She was smiling, her cheeks shining with laughter and her eyes sparkling. Her blonde hair, styled to frame her jaw, was slightly rumpled.

"Long day?" she asked Brian.

She sat Paul on the floor. He gave a babyish whine, but didn't protest any more. He gnawed on his teething ring and continued to watch John and Ritchie play.

"Yes," he said.

She helped him take his coat off.

"How have the boys behaved?" he asked.

"They're all in silly moods," she said, rolling her eyes. "Paul's been a bit fussy with his teeth, and George fell asleep not long ago. He's the heaviest sleeper I've ever seen."

Brian laughed. He walked to George and smiled.

"He's just a bit tired," Sarah said.

"He had an early morning."

Brian felt a small force hit his legs. Ritchie and John held onto his wet trousers.

"John and Ritchie have seem to be compensating for those two, though."

Brian rested his hands on each of their heads. He buried his fingers in their hair. Ritchie scratched his damp face.

"I'm wet," he said. "Maybe we should all hug later."

The boys let go when he pried them off. Paul reached up for him, though, and Brian couldn't resist.

"Does your mouth hurt?" he asked.

Paul nodded against his shoulder. Brian patted his back.

Jane was grabbing her own coat and looking out the window.

"You can take an umbrella with you," Brian said.

She turned around and smiled. "I'll be fine."

"It's dreadful out there," he said. "I insist."

"Thank you," she said.

She grabbed one of the umbrellas from the stand. Brian walked to the door and waited in the threshold while she walked into the cold rain, to her car. Ritchie and John peaked past Brian's legs to wave goodbye. When the car pulled away, they ran back to the warmth of the living room.

Brian followed them at his own pace. He continued to pat and rub Paul's back, trying to give a little comfort, until his teething ring fell to the floor.

"Oh no," Brian said, looking down at it.

John ran to pick it up. Brian held back a grimace at all the germs and drool now covering John's hand. He reached down for it.

There was a small gag, and before Brian could turn his head to look at Paul, he felt wet warmth soak through his suit.

He closed his eyes and didn't breathe. John voiced his disgust and ran away.

Were two year olds supposed to spit up? It wasn't exactly vomit. Maybe the teething just upset his stomach.

"Eww…" Ritchie said.

Paul sniffled.

Brian opened his eyes again. Paul was leaning back in his arms and looking at him, eyes filled with tears.

"It's alright. We'll get cleaned up," Brian said. "Do you feel better now?"

"Yeah," Paul mumbled.

Brian sighed.

"Good."

Paul wrapped his arms around Brian's neck. Brian held him a little tighter.

"It's perfectly normal, Mr. Epstein," Dr. Samwise said.

Brian clutched the phone in his hand, fingers fidgeting on the plastic. He watched the boys draw at the dining table.

"Are these the last teeth?" Dr. Samwise asked.

"Yes."

"You're a lucky chap. Sometimes teething with upset the little ones' stomachs with all the drool and pain. Paul seems especially sensitive, doesn't he?"

"He's a sensitive child."

"Perhaps he'll grow out of it. Children are peculiar at this age."

"Right," Brian said. He didn't need a doctor to tell him that. "Well, thank you."

"You're very welcome. Call if there's more problems - if there's a fever or actual vomit. Anything like that."

"I will. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Mr. Epstein."

Brian sat the phone in the cradle and ran a hand through his damp hair. After a short debacle of cleaning up the mess, he decided he and Paul could do with an early bath. It had relaxed Brian a little, and a new box of cigarettes and hour with the boys took care of the rest of his tension. They now all sat reunited, happily scribbling different colors on paper.

"What have you got here?" Brian asked, walking behind the boys.

Ritchie pointed proudly at his work. There were four small stick figures of varying heights and a larger one lined up together with a background of a single blue stripe as a sky and a smiling sun. Flowers dotted the grass - a green stripe all the yellow-skinned, blue-haired figures stood on.

"It's us," Ritchie said.

Brian beamed. "That's marvelous. Absolutely wonderful."

"It's not done yet," Ritchie said and went back to work adding more detail.

John held up his paper. He had utilized every color in the box and even tried mixing some. The outcome was some monster with jagged teeth and wild hair. Brian laughed.

"And what's this?" he asked.

"An imaginary man."

"Oooh… I see. Does he have a name?"

John thought for a bit, putting the paper back down. "Clepton."

Brian nodded, holding back a burst of laughter. "That's truly wonderful, John."

Paul and George worked on a piece together. They scribbled furiously across the paper, creating a sort of Picasso. Brian didn't want to disturb their concentration and merely ran his fingers through their hair.

He walked to the window, staring out into the dark street. The asphalt was wet and covered with a light dusting of snow. Brian could see flakes, once rain, falling past the glow of the street lights every time they passed through the illumination.

It was beautiful.

He looked back to the boys.

They were beautiful.