They were very different men, in the end. Where Errol Partridge saw second chances and hope amidst the colours and the freedom, John Preston saw the potential for falling into the same traps and repeating the same mistakes.
"Thank you," he said softly, dull eyes skirting over the strands of hair near her fringe before he took the cup in both hands and peered down at his rippling reflection on the surface of the drink tinged the colour of rust.
"He didn't tell you." What was meant to be a question was delivered deadpan like any other statement. For a moment, Preston looked up at Beauty, unable to mask that half-second of surprise in his raised eyebrows and wide eyes. But then the moment was gone, and he fell back into the silence he was comfortable with, drinking his tea quietly.
'You always knew.' But then, that hadn't been true. Preston had suspected, to be sure - but to really know something was different to doubting and second-guessing.
"He was a sense offender," John replied softly, lowering the cup into his lap. There was a trace of emotion in the way his voice wavered - maybe it was guilt, or remorse, or possibly regret. He found it difficult to figure out what it was.
"I-" Treaded none too softly on his dreams "-did my job."