Help!

Savoy Truffle

George instantly froze, his face impassive.

"I'm not sick." He cleared his throat and coughed into his sleeve. "Well not that sick. S'just a cold, nothing to worry about. I can just take some medicine and we can forget about this, yeah?"

"George." Paul warned. "We've noticed how sick you are, and it doesn't look like just a cold. I've seen people with the lurgy who look better than that."

"Really lad, if ye aren't felling well, let us help ye, alright?" Ringo added. "It's no trouble, we're in this together, remember? You just make it more stressful for both of us if you make it seem like you don't trust us."

"Yeah, I know. I just...didn't want to ruin the tour. I know our fans what to see us so bad." George said in a very small voice, looking dejected at the thought of letting their fans down.

"Eh, they can go t'hell. Sides, all they want to see is our smashing looks. Otherwise why would they scream our music out?" John smirked and clapped George gently on his shoulder. "You shouldn't worry so much about them, alright? I'm sure if they knew you were ill, they'd be worried about you too. Birds are like that. Don't care if they bother us, but if something else is, it's got to go to hell."

"Ta, I know I should've been taking better care of meself. Its just that we've been so busy, I guess I got sick because of the stress." George tried to play down his symptoms. Maybe if they believed it was simply a really bad cold, he could take some medicine and maybe rest a bit more, but still play all the shows.

Paul worriedly shook his head and sighed. "We're going t'have to tell Eppy. Don't worry Geo, he loves us, he won't let any of us be sick without care. Maybe we can have y'go to less interviews. Unlike our fans, the press don't need to see us all to have a field day. While you rest, Eppy can maybe get y'some medicine and a doctor."

George shrugged. He'd been adverse to it at first, but maybe Paul was right. As long as he powered through the shows, he could do this. And the doctor wasn't something he wanted, but he knew Paul would flip if he didn't see one.

"Hell Geo, you really must not've wanted to be interviewed." John playfully quipped. "I guess they were right, y'really are the quiet Beatle. Really carrying that to the grave aren't ye."

"Aw, leave 'im alone John." Ringo smirked. "He always said he'd always answer a worthwhile question. Finally tired of American tabloid press are ya?"

"'Ave been since they started asking me what our favorite food is. Why do they care anyways?" George shrugged. "I don't mind missing the interviews. But Paul, the deal is that I'll play in all the shows. Y'better hold t'that.

"Aish, of course Georgie." Paul ruffles his hair gently. "As long as y'see a Doctor and get some meds. Ye're health comes first."

"Alright." Neal interrupted from the front. I'll tell Eppy what's going on. You all need to get going, we're on a schedule, and I'm sure some food wouldn't hurt. We got you a room in the back, so no press will bother you."

"Ta Neal, we really appreciate it."

Neal shook his head and laughed, turning and patting Paul on the shoulder as he exited the car. "You know as well as I do that it's not me. If you want to thank someone, thank Eppy. He's the one who organized all this for you lads."

With that, the Beatles exited, all of them wincing as the screams of the girls that had gathered outside reached full volume, crescendoing into a deafening roar. Even though they had only been there for a short time, dozens of faces stared at them. Some were smiling, others were hysterical. Covering George's head with his jacket, Ringo tried his best to hide him from the camera flashes and the eager journalist who steeped up into security already asking a million questions. The door swung open to the resturant, and they tumbled in a quickly as possible.

Once they had made it inside without any mishaps due to the police, they sighed in relief. The room was small-but big enough where they could shuffle around the table. The comfortable seats were a horrid shade of green, but the rest of the room was a dark wood trim and table, making the room seem rather gloomy, even for the sixties. Menus were strewn across the table, and glasses of cold water. George took one and sipped gratefully. His throat still felt like someone had shredded it.

"Phew! I'm never going to get used t'that." Ringo shook his head. "Still don't get the fascination-"

"You mean obsession. Just say it, Ringo. If them girls could get their hands on ye, you'd never see the light of day again." John scoffed. His eyes were sharp with disdain. "I love our fans, but sometimes y'just gotta step back a little and wonder, what're y'actually doing?"

"Oh come off it John, don't tell me you did nothing dumb as a teenager. I would know, I was there!" Paul scoffed. "These poor birds are just teenagers, and they don't know how to deal with their excitement. Can you really blame them?" He flipped his hair dramatically, making John and Ringo laugh, and even forced a chuckle out of George, who was seated and already looking through the menu. His head wasn't throbbing so much now that he was inside, and his stomach grumbled, still hungry despite the onslaught of sniffles and coughs. It was the smoke that arose from Ringo's cig that set him on the worst coughing fit he's had yet.

"Geez Rings, put that thing out." He wheezed. He loved his smokes, but right now it caught in his lungs and sent all the air back out harshly. "I'd like to breathe, thanks."

"Oh, sorry lad." Ringo quickly sniffed the cig in the ash tray next to him. "Guess I'll wait until the hotel...."

"Sorry."

"No problem lad, probably shouldn't be smoking whilst we eat anyways, it always drains the taste."

"Now boys, are we ready to order?" A kind looking waiter arrived. Nobody missed how George's eyes lit up at the mention of ordering. Guess he was alright if he was still so ravenous.