Classic Rock Oneshots

Will you still feed me?

With a yawn, Paul McCartney cracked his back and hung up his apron, signalling the end of his shift and therefore the end of the day. Shrugging on his coat and checking that all the stoves were off, he shut off the lights to the restaurant.

He rubbed his tired eyes as he opened the door to start the long walk home. He had been dreaming of his bed all day long along with the warmth of his fireplace. But when he went to lock up shop, that's when he saw him.

Pressed right up against the shop wall, curled up in a ball with a newspaper for warmth, George Harrison lay with the filthy concrete as a pillow. His skin was dirty and greasy and his clothes were in a state beyond disgusting. But the worst part was his figure. Skin clung to his bones like a wet rag and he was so dreadfully thin that he seemed to be a walking skeleton.

Paul stopped in his tracks and thought for a moment. It didn't take him long to decide though. His comfortable bed and fireplace could wait for now.

Without locking the door, he knelt down and placed a hand on the sleeping man's shoulder.

"Hey mate." Paul cooed and shook his shoulder slightly. George's amber eyes flickered open and he yawns loudly. He scratches his mop of chocolate hair and looks to the person who woke him with a confused frown.  "Sorry to wake you, but did you want some dinner?" The chef asks, cocking his head towards the restaurant in which he was sleeping out the front.

Despite being slightly dazed and disoriented from being woken up, George's eyes flew open with delight and he sat up instantly. "Really?!" He cries like a child who had just gotten a new bike, his dark eyes holding excitement and joy that they hadn't since months ago.

Paul chuckles and nods with a kind smile. "Yeah, of course. Come in." he gestures and helps the homeless man stand before opening the restaurant door yet again for him. Paul turns on the lights again and motions for the other man to follow him into the kitchen.