December 11, 1968

The Who had performed their act for the Rock ‘n Roll Circus, and you, being a popular solo rockstar, had your chance to perform a song.

The Who’s singer, Roger, was having an amazing time at this showing. He, along with his band, had heard your music playing on the radio before, and didn’t mind it. They’d never seen you live, not even your Smothers Brothers performance or your gig on Ed Sullivan. They were intruiged to see you live.

The moment you got on stage, Roger seemed to sit up straighter. He had this odd feeling in his chest, a pang of an unexplored emotion. Regardless, he sat comfortably and waited for you to signal your band in. The music started, and the song you were performing was a lot heavier than your typical sound. Roger ran a hand theough his head of curls, his eyes narrowing as he listened to you begin to sing.

“She’s singing the hell out of that song,” he whispered to Pete, sitting next to him. Pete nodded, and continued to watch and analyse to himself silently. Roger just smiled slightly, enjoying the sound. ——— After the event, he tried to catch you loading onto your bus with your band. He ran up behind you, glancing back at Keith, who was encouraging him to go. “Excuse me, miss?” Roger asked in his thick accent.

You turned around, a confused but welcoming countenance on your face. You had evident bags under your eyes that no makeup could cover, your hair bumped in a slight beehive and a headband over your hair. You looked like you had just rocked out, and you had. But even then, when your eyes met Roger’s, his glowed.

“Hello?” you asked, the wind and the chill of December lingering in your bones, through your coat. A smile covered your face in an effort to stay looking pleasant after being so drained from the day.

“Hi! Uh—“ Roger glanced back at Keith, who was now smoking a cigarette, “You were just phenomenal out there. Do you write your music?”

“I do, yeah,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the bus, smiling. Roger smiled at you back, his hands buried in his pockets as he swayed subtly back and forth.

“You’re a genius, really.”

The two of you laughed, and he was happy you seemed very flattered. He cleared his throat. “There’s this, uh, Christmas party on the 21st, all rockers and mods, y’know? I was wondering if maybe you’d wanna be in my company?” he asked with a blush from the cold nipping at his nose and cheeks. He wore a shy smirk, but didn’t come off as nervous, rather more casual. He crossed his arms and tucked his hands under his armpits, awaiting your answer. You told him you’d call him once you figured out your work schedule, and so you parted and said goodnight. ——— December 14th, 1968: Roger’s home.

“No, Pete, I’m serious! She said she’d call me,” Roger said, grabbing a drink from his fridge for the both of them and tossed one to Pete.

“Why her for the party? I thought you weren’t too excited over her music,” Pete said, cracking the drink open and taking a sip from the cold bottle and watching Roger take a seat.

“You’re joking! Did you see her? She sang that song like it was the last time she’d sing ever again! It was phenomenal! She even copied my mic-swinging trick,” Roger said gloatfully, opening his bottle of water.

”She invented that.”

Roger shook his head and smirked to himself, taking a sip of his water. Pete chuckled softly and took another drink.

“No, seriously. She’s crazy talented. You know, she wrote that song she played out there? Crazy!—“

The rotary phone on the table rang, and Roger and Pete looked at each other: one with a look of shock, and the other with a sly smirk. Roger ran to pick it up, hoping it was who he thought it was. He asked, “Hello? Roger Daltrey speaking.”