Word Count: 7400                                     Set in: 60's and 70's- UK & USA.

Something that I wrote when I was stumped, unable to write what I should be working on!  
Any spelling mistakes etc. please let me know.

Johns dreams haunt him... 

He slammed the car door and stomped wearily toward the studio. Sleep had eluded him- yet again.

Music, however much he loved it, infiltrated his dreams. Of course, Paul would say this was a good thing, great actually. But the issue was, none of it was his.

Not one ounce!

And none of it was male.

None of it was Beatlesque-like. It was female this noise...

And no, he wasn't doing a Paul and getting some little girl in to sing his bloody ditties.

The thought had crossed his mind of course; wondering idly if maybe if he did get some sheila in, the dreams would dissipate and run away, never to be seen again. They didn't, he couldn't. That was Paul's game anyhow, not his. Maybe he could have dredged up an all-male group but female, nope. Too much estrogen there, folks.

Soooo the dream stayed.

Like a dog with a bone his dreams teased him, drilling feminine lah lah lah's into his skull. And what good was it. He couldn't capture the melody. He had tried. Notebook at the ready on the bedside, torch, pen, pencil, a fucking pencil sharpener for goodness sake, and still the melody evaded him. The nib of his pen drew blank on the page, the pencil snapped.

Couldn't tell Cyn because the fleeting minds eye view of the figure that owned the lah lah lah's was a vision. Blonde yes, Cyn no. This blonde was youngish, her voice projected the innocence of it all. Her curves were dusted in dreams and limbs but tentacles of his own, reaching, trying to capture her. Lips would appear, then vanish. Red catsuit-like clothing like nothing that he had ever seen in real life; well maybe Cat Woman on telly, but even Cat Woman's get up seemed rather drab and tired, in compare.

Time marched on. The dream stayed strong.

The game was up. Told Paul today. Dreamt that female in red last night again. No, not Paul in red, the other one. The lah lah lah one. Her face appeared fleetingly.

It didn't stop the dreams telling Paul. He didn't help none either. Nothing, not telling, not hoping, seemed to shake it loose of its hold on my mind.

Yoko snuggled closer and that face was nothing in compare. Yoko was strong, pushy, all business. The dream, she was my libido, my sexual needs. And the voice came through like I was in the studio, ear against the speaker, listening, enjoying, all alone. All for me. All, only for me.

Is she, this lah lah lah dream, even real? Have I heard her on the radio, seen her on that new variety program whilst half doped and sweating through the high. Yoko brought that. The dope. The heavy stuff anyway. H. Hell in a syringe. Feels so good I know it's bad. Disgusting. But she fed it to me and I can feel myself wanting to say no for seconds, then the rush... then the calm. So good. So, I let my arm straighten like I'm a robot or a toddler waiting for his flu jab and the doctor to give me a lollipop. She doesn't give me a lollipop though. She doses up and stares vacantly right alongside of me. Till I sleep proper, and there she is. Red catsuit, leather. Tight, so f'ing tight it hurts to think too hard about the rubbing and tightening as it moves. And the zip... It must run the length, nape then snug all the way through and down to her pert behind.

And the days and years roll on. And the dream hangs onto all my nights.

George pushes me through the corridors. Home, but it isn't. Well not anymore. So many hours we all spent in here. Dreaming, laughing, yelling. I love Paul but the man needs to be off on his own a while, Georgey too. Yes, we all need to go blow smoke up our own arses to get the solo stuff out and then come back and be a band again.

Look at the poor dear. George has been the little brat brother forever and a day. He needs space because I certainly haven't given any to him. Paul hasn't either. But what can you do... the lyrics fall, the music swallows and combines with them and a hit is made. Paul and I, together, were- are; I don't know... A yank term could be peanut butter and jelly, English? - maybe egg and chips.

We were a machine, unstoppable, incapable of slowing... til now. What we wrote, how much we wrote, smothered George and swallowed him whole. Yeah Geo needs time out to breath and weave his own style. And he will, no doubt he will.

Lah Lah Lah's have been in me head for weeks, years, eons. Eating up quality sleep. If I could tell it to leave I would. Cyn said I should get a hobby. I said that was the Beatles. Yoko said the vision will leave when ready. I said nothing because I want the vision like the night needs the day. It's comforting, the length of time this vision has been mine, has been years now. I want the vision to come true and tell me what she or it wants with me.

Anything, nothing, love, hate, wisdom, money.

I hear it, the music in my head. Here, now, in my own studios.

"What's that?"

"Oh, that's just a new singer one of the executives is trialing. Got a good arse that one, might make it"

"That's very sexist of you George"

"When did you start thinking in terms of females and not sex"

"Never"

"Ha. I knew it"

"Give us a gander  then we'll go look at that song of yours yeah?"

"Righteo, but don't be long, Erics popping by tonight"

"Eric pops by often"

"Yeah well if you had a Pattie he'd pop by yours often too, I suppose"

"Suppose so" I stalled in the hallway, the recording light flickered off above the door and George meandered off humming to himself.

When you're a Beatle or nearly ex- Beatle doors open.

Easily.

This next door opened to an executive trying to rub up against a blonde while she whipped her lips away from his mouth. I usually wouldn't intervene, the Neanderthal male in me would see another male swinging his todger about and close the door. But the dream has been eating my insides and the lah lah lah's have been flogging my thoughts. And the sounds I heard moments ago came so close to the ones I hear nightly I think I will lose my mind if I let this blonde continue on that collision course with this handsy dick waver.

"Oh hey there, got change for a fiver?"

That got the fella off the bird.

My voice seems to do that. I can sing a female into hysteria but my talking voice... grating the chalkboards of audio it does.

Does the trick though. Woodburn should know better. He's top brass and shining his appendages in public is a no-no. Wouldn't the boys like to see this bloke thrown under a bus for all the asinine orders that have filtered down over the last few years. Oh yes mister Woodburn let his knickers down, the naughty hound.

A quick glance, as he passes by, confirms I will be written up and a letter of apology demanded.

God she's just a baby. I don't think I'll see any more lah lah lah's after this. She looks like my vision around the edges but younger. Her vocal, before Woodburn tried it on, was definitely her though. My dream. But she is a baby and I don't tangle with little girls however gorgeous they are.

"Alright?"

"Yes" is squeaked out from tangled blonde hair and mascara smudges. Just seventeen you know what I mean runs through my head.

"Got the contract then?" I joke.

"Funny- no" Steel makes its way into her baby blues and I can see icicles forming. A shame really. Innocence shouldn't be marred like this. But then again no one in this business is able to get to the top without steel. Maybe she will be ok.

"Try George Martin, he's a gentleman. Woodburn shouldn't have even been in the studio" She hasn't a catsuit on. But the capris and lacy top are nice. Womanly on a young figure. Is she what I have been waking for? I hardly doubt it. There is no connection other than my being in the right place at the right time to save her. If I could see her face clean with no tear stains I would think yes, maybe this is the gal but with black rivers running south, I can't see naught but misery and increasing anger.

"This was a mistake" The girl is gone before I can open my mouth. Scooping up her satchel, guitar, a notebook and scurrying past, trying not to touch me like I'm the plague.

These bloody rooms are like haunted houses when you're alone.

Woodburn hasn't returned.

'My' Blonde must be half way across London by now and I stare at the floor where she stood wondering if I should have stopped her, paused the film. It felt like a movie actually. Damsel in distress, dastardly nasty bloke.... handsome saviour. And said what exactly? Asked what question to see if I could equate this teenager with the woman in my head?

There, I've gone and answered my own question- one is a woman, the other, this one, a girl. But it feels a little eerie too... If she is the woman, she has been in my head for a couple of years now. How is that possible? How do I stand here even contemplating this girl is the same chick in my ever-faithful, most annoyingly regular, dreams? I have no evidence, no way of shutting the case.

"What you doing?"

"Cleaning studio three what does it look like I'm doing?"

"It looks like you are trying to disassemble the parquetry"

"I thought it would suit the sunroom"

"O...K mister home designer"

"I was kidding. I was thinking"

"Oh God John, did it hurt!?"

"Hardy ha-ha. Just, you know, that chick"

"What chick?"

"The one that was singing"

"Did you scare her away already. You are so nasty to the new ones"

"I didn't scare her Woodbu- Never mind. What do you want?"

"If I said I want you, would it make me seem needy and queer"

"Well, you are needy and queer George"

"Did she record then?"

"Don't change the subject"

"I have to, I don't want to fight, I'm tired"

"Same"

"So..."

"So... what?"

"God John! Did she record? Did you hear what she sounded like?" George moved across the overly interesting floor toward the control room and it was only then I realised I may still get answers. Well half answers because she had slipped my butterfly net, hadn't she.

George, bless him, tinkered with the buttons and toggles and got some sound out of the eight-track panel.

And there it was...

Her voice.

The voice of my dreams.

A baby singing lah lah lah's.

Just like my woman.

Just like my dream.

Fleeing the studio, broken dreams stacked around her.

It was her chance, the one time someone had listened.... and then this mess appears.

That man, that horrid man wanting, wanting... her. Her body, her dignity and it was another man, that famous man, that ironically saved her. She would forever be in his debt even though it was unlikely she would ever meet him again.

Change tinkled in her pocket, the few coins barely enough for the train. The ride home to face an irate father and mother.

The music and career would now wait because her youth compelled her home. To safety and parental protection. She could write, craft and hone in the comfort, and four walls, of her room. And never again would she walk into a studio like a lost puppy yearning for attention, yearning for that mollycoddling pat on the head. No, when she walked back into a room like that studio, she would be smart, strong, and know who or what brought her there.

Sixteen candles had burned barely twenty-four hours earlier. And now, a day, and an induction into sexual abuse later, she calmed the quest. Understanding that her moment would come and she should work toward the day, not try and act like a grown-up before her time.

Just stop... and be a kid.

"Tighter" Rae pulled excess material away from her body "I want to feel, and look sexy, not like I'm being swallowed by garbage bag"

It had happened.

Not quite overnight but with a few choice words from a drunken Elton John Rae found a career and her voice. She was no kid anymore. Forthright, assured and street-smart Rae Sunshine was no shrinking violet in front of the camera or when it came to powerhouse songs.

Her songs, her babies- shone.

Friends she trusted, manager she wore out and Elton, her pen-pal, her friend and dear melodramatic telephone buddy, knew the real girl. The one with a heart of gold that shared her good fortune with strangers that needed it, and the family and friends that remained true.

Elton had sat in the corner of a pub in Hampstead waiting for inspiration, instead, he got a mouthy nineteen-year-old with a set of lungs that blew him instantly away.

He was the Rocketman, she was the sun.

Raylene Morris dropped into his life on the cusp of his new world tour and the tarot reader in him played the cards. Over the course of the evening the blonde ran through two hours of mostly covers then slipped in her own power pieces, masterpieces. He clapped and asked for another, and another, and before long he counted two full albums worth of material. Her songs, her lyrics, her everything. *If he wasn't a poof he'd marry her but he was so he just called her girlfriend for the fun and latched her onto a recording deal and a tour that was calling out for new blood.
*Hope I don't offend I just felt Elton would talk of himself in this way. Jokey. Knowing what he is*- let me know if you feel it needs altering.

Rae Sunshine was born out of the full day of adventures he took her on after that. They hung out, slept, giggled, opened his wardrobe and played dress up, and more importantly, he laughed. She was a little Rae of Sunshine in Elton's drunken high, miserably lonely, life.

He was the first one to admit the bender had been long but he couldn't stop, couldn't get off the carousel. What if that bender happened to be the heart of hit song or the makings of another gold album. Better to keep the status quo than risk the dole queue or his father's ridicule or even his mother's scorn about his way of life. His love-life.

Rae blasted herself onto the Rocketman's stage and rocked his house, his kingdom for a night. Elton joining her on piano when it was close to his part of the show... The main acts part of the show; Although, Elton could see Rae was a star and he, with all his fame and gold records and money, could see she was real royalty, a superstar about to burst forth. She danced, she sang, she moved around the stage like she was an addict on her next fix. But this fix was good, raw, powerful, golden. Like her hair, like her beauty, like her endless talent.

Yet he could see fragility and tender heartedness drifting as she floated through the motions. She loved it centre stage but she also craved balance and her eyes would oft drift to children and families as the limo or bus took them through the streets. She was high, drifting like a kite but he saw her want of a steady hand on the line, on her back, by her side.

"You're a bloody bigger princess than me backstage Rae but that's good. It's the fighter, the want, that drives fame. The yearn for more that keeps you separated from the norm"

"Heidi, can we do something with the legs?! They cut into my-"

"Into your pussy darling?"

"My stage suit is falling apart Elton! I need to get this fitted and sorted for tomorrows sho- Ouch! Heidi watch the pins! So, me asking for the ties to be tightened, the legs to have more give and the fabric to be taut is business, not princess pouting E! And don't say that word!"

"You're kitty is purring I'm sure of it darling. Anyway Miss Diva, you're demanding not asking, you're pushing Heidi, our intrepid dressmaker, not asking-"

"So, I'm not a bitch per se on stage... but off-"

"Yeah- that"

"I love you"

"I love you too Sunny. Now, my duckling, it's party time! I want to take you, my love, to the Troubadour seeing as we're in LA..."

"Elton, we have talked 'bout this. I'm still months off being of age"

"Poopycock! You're older than me in brain function for a start, beautiful"

"I can drink at the mansion, in the hotel, in the tour bus, in the limo... but in public-No"

"Well, it's not in public silly! We will be far away from the speckle-po-tatas"

"Spectators. Don't call your fans potatoes, E"

Darling I call a spud a spud, a fan a spud, a pap a spud . All mashed potatoe to me, Chickybabe!"

"Weird"

"Coming dear?"

"Yeah, someone's got to hold your crown I guess"

"And my tiara... And sceptre"

"Gee, where were you hiding that thing!!"

"Wouldn't you like to know ducky, wouldn't you like to know"

March 12, 1974 would forever go down in Rae's history book as both the worst, and best day, of her life. The day she threw up a dozen brandy alexanders, that's brandy and milk, folks, and that was the day she met John proper.

He sat there with that half smirk in a bored stupor, as the world around him rotated. The Smothers brothers were heckled loudly, something about pigs and shit; Rae caught the verbal barbs as she was led to the table of stars. She reminded herself she had every right to be here. She wasn't of John Lennon's legendary status but Alice Cooper was still on the rise up, as was she.

Still wearing her stage gear for her presence and confidence, and also, because Elton liked to make scenes, Rae sweltered in a large fur coat flung over the top. She swayed those hidden hips and grinned like she wasn't nervous as she made her entrance.

Some fake, some real, was she.

Outwardly she shone flaming hot. Being on stage you had to fake it to make it. Yet inside, sometimes, she was still a little girl.

"Fucking hell EJ what's that you're carrying? A royal jewel encrusted dildo?" Harry Nilsson piped up  raucously as Elton swung his spectre above everyone's head.

"I dub thee all dunces and duncettes. Not you John, you're far too smart for being a dunce"

"Shucks E I feel right fluffed and fancy. I've been upgraded. Was a Jester, wasn't I, last time I saw you?"

"Yes, but a jester can be smart... Now dunces, duncette and Smart Jester John. Stop! That's far too long a name. Let's drop the smart and go with just JJ. Right, where was I? Oh yes, I was here...Please make a warm welcome for my newest prodigy Rae!!! Say hello darling"

"Hi folks!"

"Rae Sunshine- prettier than those photos in the paper from when you were snogging that idiot from The Doors on page three" Harry smirked, eyeing the golden child of the moment.

"It was four a.m. in the morning and we were air kissing-"

"You're English!?" John blurted

"Of course, she is, John! Where have you been hiding darling?"

"E, I don't do ancestral lineage to find out who your f-ing tour openers are. 'Ello, I'm JJ, from Liddypool"

John reached out and clasped her hands in his. His eyes drifting casually over her, liking what he saw. She was young and bloody good looking. A spark of something great in her eye. A pull of a joke at the corner of her lips.

"Hi, I'm Rae, from Fulham, Battersea... And Putney Heath-we moved... a lot! ... I saw you once, in London"

Pulling a hand away John swayed an arm about, gesturing unsteadily over the crowd.

"You and the whole of Beatlemania luv"

"At the studios... " Rae frowned. It was nothing but a moment in a long line of inconsequential moments. Nothing he would remember, nothing she could forget. "Forget it, that was another lifetime ago"

The Smothers brothers took a break and the DJ started up the current music chart hits. It slipped around the ears of the group as conversation rose and fell. Banter and jokes. Naughty filthy jokes of Elton's, loud obnoxious laughter from the hanger-oners squeezed on the edges of the group. Rae cackling at Elton's asides as he sat pointing out random weirdos wandering past. There was bellowing for more drinks from Harry. Alice rubbing mascara further afield, all over his face. John queening it up with Elton making people woof whistle and hoot and holler. A waitress appeared dropping drinks all over the table, loud noisy men quietening as they sipped or skulled the liquor however the case may be. Then Rae was blushing. Her song was now playing and Elton pushed her gently in a 'you go girl' nudge. Harry pointed a cigarette, nodding. He liked this song. The sweep and breadth of her vocal range made you a little jealous, even when you could sing well, even if you were a man. Rae's lips pressed together, a little embarrassed and equally, a little proud, that her song garnered interest from Harry or Alice, even John looked blown away when she dared cast her eyes his way. 

John looked...... what? Uncertain, surprised? She didn't know what. Was it...dumbstruck? But he was John Lennon and people like him didn't remain that way for long; although E had lost his tongue the first night she had made his acquaintance...

"I like this one luv" Harry reached out and properly pumped her hand, shaking it heartily "Very good. Who wrote it?"

"She did, you nincompoop!!" Elton preened like a proud peacock then reached down and grasped Rae's wrist and raised it high in triumph, his spectre sailing north in his other hand too. Of course, his spectre rose too. He was Elton John for Christ's sake!

"Jesus Christ- You!" John spat hastily.

John's eye widened and searched her all over as he tumbled the words from his mouth. The chorus, the bridge, the fade-out, all tickling his mind. The lah lah lah's laughing and mocking him... Saying wake up! This is real-life man!

No longer his dream.

Finally, the dream has burst and the mutterings of time, since the nightly visits began, swim in his head: Here she is, do something.

He stared hard, which wasn't hard at all. He was blind as a flippin' bat with or without his specs. Just life it was- his staring. He was actually staring at her like the song was a crap load of shit. He always did walk a slim line of nice or not with his face; and you sometimes couldn't tell the difference. "Sorry- you wrote and sang this?"

"And she did the guitar parts on the recording. She's a bloody ripe plum this one. Smart as a whip too. I' dub thee-"

"E, come on! Stop swaying that thing about!"

"Rae! I've got it darling! I dub thee: Smart RS"

You dub me Smart Arse, thanks a bloody bunch, you gigantic knob head!"

The table broke into fits of laughter, her song forgotten; thankfully, Rae decided. But John stared on.

Stared through the laughter and bangs of Elton's sparkly spectre on Harry's skull and the next round of Brandy Alexanders that came round too. Rae reached for the glass. John reached for his. She sculled, he watched on mesmerised or was it just plain shock. Was this her?

His dreams were a little cloudy nowadays- Thanks very muchly booze. But they swam toward him regularly. If he was lucid, he heard her, if he was sober, he saw her form. But still, the song, was the lah lah lah's. Was it really her though? She had the gorgeous hair he mused. The sort that was thick and strong, so bloody long but, he imagined, soft as silk.

Rae was hot. The catsuit, a good idea for her nerves and ego, not so much a good idea for a few of the most contentious cocktails she had ever tasted on her life! The drink caught her off guard. The heat she felt from them, burnt up her entire spine, the suit felt like fire. The fur coat had to go.

For Rae had fallen victim to the riotous company, the endless rounds of drinks, her young throat burned from the liquor, her body swaying slightly from her fill. She needed water, an ice bath it felt like, and if that wasn't available, she was going to have to shed her fur.

So, she did.

Standing, dropping one shoulder then the other, her arms slipped the coat to her waist. Unclipping the belt she had forgotten, the heavy pelt fell away completely.

The catsuit blazed under the lights shining from the stage behind and the lighting above, her hips flaring, breasts carved perfectly in the sweep of tight red leather.

The leather was like an aphrodisiac for her on stage. Made her feel like she was ten-foot-tall, bulletproof, sexy, in control, able to conquer the world.

It was a mask.

It was a cape to hide the quiet girl inside.

And her body quivered under John Lennon's stare. The stare of a thirsty man, the stare of disbelief and wonderment, the stare of want... and of dreams.

Rae and John watched each other.

Her- because she wasn't sure why he was so intently staring.

Him- to try and throw the dream out the door. But if it were her?... Could she quell the dream that seemed to send him mad nightly.

More nightmare than a blessing, it was now. The dream had been there so long he hated and loved it equally. Hated the constant, loved the thought. The thought that the vision was his. His alone, his secret. His and only his.

Harry Nilsson looked on. John had May, he had had Yoko, Cyn too but Rae was young, could she handle him. The legend, the dickhead when drunk, the egomaniac when in a mood. Would be intriguing to watch the sparks of the little newbie in the lion's den. She had guts to wear the outfit, the catsuit was like a dick magnet. If that's what she wanted, she would be given it.

John, instead of carting Rae off to a quiet place and questioning her, decided to ignore her instead. Got angry at himself for putting a dream in such high regard that when he spotted a pretty girl in a red vicelike clutch of indecent material that he thought it was his subconsciousness talking. Bloody rubbish shite. John slammed the empty glass on the table and went to work on another.

And another.

And another.

Such was the ferocity with which Lennon fell into a belligerent stupor, both he and Nilsson were escorted from the iconic Troubadour nightclub after they spent much of the rest of the evening heckling that comedy act that had been attempting to work the crowd; The Smothers Brothers.

So the main parties were told to leave..

Which meant, everyone then went to leave.

Like Caesar and his troops.

The group of stars- old, new and in between.

The hanger-oners.

The speakle-potatas.

The tiara and sceptre.

All followed the procession out the door of the Troubadour.

It didn't matter at that time of the morning, did it. Wee hours no one about, no eyes to see.

Yet, filled to the eyeballs with Brandy Alexanders, things turned ugly real quick. John lost his trademark specs in the furore of fists being flung. Who started it, no one knew. Paparazzi cameras flashing and reporters dancing and delving, poking noses, closing in all around only added to the raucousness of events.

Rae ended up with Johns glasses hidden behind a van because of the punches that were being thrown.

Later one of the Smothers Brothers would reflect:

"It was a big Hollywood opening. During our first set, I heard someone yelling about pigs...it was fairly disgusting. I couldn't figure out who it was. But I knew Harry and John were there. The heckling got so bad that our show was going downhill rapidly," Smothers added. "No one cared, because it was just a happening anyway, but there was a scuffle going on and we stopped the show. Flowers came the next day apologizing."

A month prior John had sat with a kotex on his head. No photo thankfully but the gossips and hounds blew the story to kingdom come. This month his fists had flown. Probably his heads' fault. His same head that wept inwardly at his stupidity of not engaging more with Rae. Seeing if she was indeed his recurring dream. Her song certainly was the sound. He knew it the moment he heard it a few weeks prior when it came pumping from the radio in the limo speeding back from the airport. Speeding away from a failed marriage and the carnage of a woman's scorn. 'Y' would never back down. She would never cede. She was worse than him, he finally realised that trinket of info when it was all too late; When his finances were split and served on a platter in divorce court.

The brandy alexanders were still floating in his system. The bleariness' of the hangover, the aches, the soreness in his fists all there, front and centre. Breathing over him, making him want to sleep, or just go ahead and drink more, to top the whole lot up again.

To stop the dreams.

Because, yes, he had been plastered, and yes, he had been royally tanked last night but Rae Sunshine's face was now present in his dreams. Her body in that red catsuit. Her lips whispering that song.

Aspirin and a gallon of water later he was digesting the fate of being an old fool. Thirty- four was old. Too old for rock and roll, too old for pop, too staid for that new sound- disco.

The gate buzzer screamed. The noise messing with his head. The scream so annoying he had to stop whoever was out there pressing the f-ing thing.

Opening the front door, wincing at the sunlight he padded tiredly up the long driveway. Stupid fucking buzzer. It needed fixing or ripping out. Whichever, he didn't care. The last owner of the beach house was not a musician so buzzers alerting the resident to arrivals was sparse; but his name, his current location; drew every man, his hanger-on girlfriend and his bloody dog to the front buzzer like a lineup for half price cod and chips from the fisho.

"Stop pressing the fucking buzzer man!" Yelling did not help hangovers, he should know that by now.

"I'm not touching the flaming thing!" Came back a female voice, floating over the timber gate as he struggled and heaved and grunted with the back panel of the buzzer box. John grabbed the contraption, ripped it from its moorings and stood dumbfounded with it in his hand.

He opened the gate and was met with a shy smile, a hand holding out his specs for him and then she was off, laughing heartily at the broken buzzer box in his hand...still going off its nut like a champion. Squawking away, doing its job like a pro.

"I think the battery's need to come out too, John" Rae grinned and stepped into the compound, turning the buzzer over, quickly slipping the batteries from the compartment in rapid, too fast for bleary eyes, movement. She had the thing quelled seconds. "There, all done" She smiled and popped the Double A batteries in her jeans pocket and didn't seem to know where to put her hands. She settled on sticking the left in her rear pocket and the right continued to clutch the specs in a death grip. John looked like an adorable stunned mullet. His hair all mussed about, maybe she had woken him. "I'm sorry, did the buzzer wake you?"

"What? Oh no. I look this dishevelled most days" Brushing his hair down he smiled as she giggled. Her eyes sparkling, hair aglow in the sunlight.

Breath. Of. Fresh. Air.

That's what he would say when asked what he first thought of her. No one wanted to know she was in his dreams. But he could honestly say.

Breath. Of. Fresh. Air.

"I thought you might be looking for these" Rae grinned a fabulous grin at him. His day was just getting better and better with her face in it.

"Oh, I 'ave heaps of them" He stated matter-of-factly back. Rae dulled, the sunshine of her smile stilled as she realised how silly she had been. John Lennon had plenty of pairs of glasses, plenty of friends, plenty of everything. Why would he need a nobody like her bringing him a pair of non-descript specs. The thoughts vanished when John full on smirked back at her.

"But those are my favourite" He smiled and nudged the glasses from her hand, then gave her fingers a squeeze "Thanks luv. Long way to come for a poor sod like me"

"I... I"

"..Come on I was just about to make a sandy" He hadn't been. He hadn't felt like food. Hadn't wanted for anything but more booze, then Rae swings by and makes him hungry, and happy.

"After you..." John swept his arm out ahead of himself and offered her the path to his front door. Throwing the buzzer in the hedge he followed the swing of her hips and the unease in her step as she made her way into his home. Her denim jeans were plastered on her, the cream blouse floating and loose, a bikini strap peaked from her nape, the colourful pool wear a beacon under the sheer fabric of the top. Her hair sweep into a high pony tail swishing and trailing, this way and that, across her back.

His hands itched.

He wanted to touch her.

To see if she was real.

Rae made the sandwiches, him being all clumsy with the knife. Her lips quirking and a smile chasing always as she puttered around his home. John sat watching, enjoying the view. His head silent and calm as Rae made them lunch.

"I'm famished. I just couldn't stop writing this morning and it was nothing to do with me! It was great. I was writing all this stuff and I don't even want it myself. Like a proper songwriter I was! I even had thoughts for who I could get to sing it and everything, not that they'd ever want to. I mean I'm not anyone really. Elton thinks I have something but I would be happy to just sit back and watch someone else up there-"

"What- up there? You mean up on stage?"

"Well, yeah I'm not a fan of it" Rae took a bite of cheese and pickle sandwich and gestured for John to do the same. "Mmmm this pickle is yum John. Is it English!?" Hoping up Rae dashed to the kitchen for the jar leaving John with a sandwich shoved half in his mouth. She was a fluttering goddess, she was. "Now, where was I? Oh! Leicester pickle! Jolly good!" Rae popped a broken bit of cheese in her mouth and pondered the jar happily. "Oh, oops! Hunger does that. Sends me loopy! Now. Right, where was- oh yes, stage.."

John sat engrossed. And he wasn't even annoyed or bothered about how fast she spoke or the tangents she took off on in the conversation. She was here, living and breathing. She was a Gemini, she liked fish and chips but hated lemon squirted on... and detested squid- don't we all.

John patted the couch and Rae slipped into place beside him, all movement with her hands as she talked and ready to jump up and dart to touch a painting or query a photograph or look out the window on a whim... then she would return and smile shyly for a little while then, in a blink, forget herself again and weave her words around him like a warm blanket, all over again. She didn't want anything; she was happy to chatter away. He would listen to her musings forever if he could. Her energy flooded through him, her vitality quivering and ready for action. His muse, here. His dream in focus and so, so real.

She liked her costumes because they gave her a sense of power but hated them because she was a fake. She liked singing but much preferred to sing into her hairbrush than on stage. She hated liars. Liked the Beatles. Scrub that, loved the Beatles, though Paul had been her favourite- typical. Although she may have changed her mind now... Wait! What?!

"What?"

"Hmmm? oh look at the time!"

"Rae...."

"Oh, I should ring for a cab. Can I borrow the telly-phone. I could walk though, it's not far is it? I hate walking. Do you walk? What am I saying, you walking would cause car crashes and riots" Giggling Rae sweep the plates away and filled the sink with soapy washing up water. She was going, but staying put for the time being; so it seemed.

"I'll call for pizza? Do you like Chinese? There's a good restaurant down the street that deliver..." John tugged for a sliver of more time to either punish his dreams, finish them for good or engage for more.

"Oh, I couldn't possibly impose! Though... I do love pizza and Chinese and Indian! I love food, but wearing the catsuit is the pits. No carbs you see.... Or I can't get the zipper all the way up!" Rae wiggled her tosh as she wiped the plates then leaned past John to put them in the cupboard. Plates safe, John dove on her. Lips connecting and taking, Rae moaned and her words disappeared. She was silent for the first time. She sighed and parted her lips letting him inside. John scooped her up close.

She pulled back carefully, not scared but not sure either.

"John?"

"I've got to make sure you're real Rae. Let me touch you"

"I'm real" She giggled "Didn't you hear me talking your ears off all day!" Rae smiled softly though and nod a firm yes, and John carefully laid her on the couch.

Rae left late in the night. Touring did that. Elton's tour was set in stone, the mad train of staging and people trailing across the states. Any friendships made, fleeting. Any time given, never to be repeated.

John knew she was real now. His mind cleared, his voice, and creativity, returned. He thanked her silently as he drift to sleep and relished the dreams when they came. They were different now. She grinned and ran around him, a speedy vision in jeans and soft words. Her eyes, before, were hidden, now they watched and smiled his way. He gave away drinking, he became centred. And waited. Waited til he could see her again. Because she was coming back, she had promised. She had whispered the words over him as she pressed a last kiss to his lips. He had been drifting in and out of sleep but he heard her words.

She had said them.

And the months drift by.

The band struck up and John let his eyes stray from watching the stage. He hated concerts, much preferred listening to albums in his room, but he was here. And he was happy to be here. Elton chuckled and squawked when John had asked for front row tickets to the Vegas Show. The last show of the tour. She would probably have plans already, go back to England and eat lashing of Leicester's finest cheese and pickles. He grinned to himself. Her voice on the telephone was lovely. When they got the times right, she rattled on about this and that, she sang some lines of songs for him, at his behest. She sang it all with laughter and giggles. He felt like a leery old man when he wasn't beside her. She was so much younger than he. But she persisted and called and sung and giggled and talked to him making the old drain away and the elixir of her youth and pep fill him in its place.

But she also spoke about not liking the stage, still preferring that hairbrush and mirror. She knew she should keep going but also knew she was selling out. She had seen how it made otherwise sane people, insane. She knew Elton was on the merry-go-round, floating ever higher and hardly able to step off. She wanted to be free to sing in little clubs and write for others and not have the pressures of travelling or the exhaustion of excess. Someone in the beginning had scared her and he knew who. She gave off the presence of strength but the veneer was thin, she wasn't as strong as she needed to be to do this- be a superstar. John listened to her, understood her; because he hated the stage too, and hated that someone would ever scare her.

And he wanted, no needed, to protect. Yes, she was young, but no, he didn't feel like a parent. No way did he have any fatherly thoughts for her. She was all woman and he felt predatory. Like a man protects his woman. A lion protects his pride.

Then she was there. The red of the catsuit on fire under the lights. Her lithe sexy movements causing men either side of him, and behind, to whistle low and long as the girlfriends plugged them in the side with fists. Bloody 'ell. He'd touched that. He'd kissed those lips. Slipped inside. And he wanted her again, and again.

She sang her pop tunes first, dancing with her backup singer and laughing and enjoying the stage. She skipped away and grabbed a guitar and slipped seamlessly into rocker chick and made any disbelievers, cave. Her vocals were outstanding, she could scream as good as Paul, she could vocally reach as good as any he had seen, and he had seen a lot. Then her show stoppers, the ones that made Elton worship her song writing skills flooded his ears and he sat mesmerized, enchanted. How could she ever dream of giving this away?

She was on fire.

Her career lit, ready to explode.

Laying her head on the dressing table she stared blankly off to the side. Only mildly aware, eyes blown wide from the stage lights, she was completely empty. The wall was shaking minutely with vibrations as Elton's band kicked up a notch in both volume and beat. She waited for the end. She waited for the bus to pull up and cart them off. She waited forever, again, for the end;

For the motel room, the slight dank smell of the enclosed space, the four walls, the scratchy comforter, the useless shower... the overly white starched itchy towels.

The tapping on the door increased the longer she ignored it. Heidi was no longer flittering about; she had cleared off home already. Sooooo, anyone out there banging on her dressing room door, was foreign... a stranger. Elton and the band the only knowns in her backstage world- and they were still on stage.

The door creaked open and still she watched the wall. Whoever it was would leave, she hoped. Leave her to herself and the after effects of the show. Bone weary and drenched in sweat she breathed in, and out. In and out.

"Hello there Rae"

She was dreaming of a him. Hearing his voice. That voice of his... that voice that sometimes slipped across ears like a knife and then at other times wound husky and sweet all the way with want down to her toes. But no it wasn't a dream, John stood just inside the door, his back leaning casually against the timber as he took her in. Waiting til she was sure it was him. Broken and tired she looked, like she needed a good meal and better sleep. He just wanted to wrap her close to him, and provide.

"John. I... John!?!"

"I came to the show, front row"

"But you don't like concerts" Up she stood, eyes now trained, transfixed on him. As if the dreams and tricks of sleep would spin him from her view.

"Well... that was pre-Rae wasn't it luv"

Ever closer they moved, careful and slow as if the other would disappear up in smoke.

"And post Rae?"

"Probably won't bother, nothing could top you luv" John grinned at her and took the last few steps to swept her body to his. She was lighter than he recalled. The catsuit warm and damp. He didn't care, he had her. "You know Rae... you have been hanging out with me for years in my dreams darling... now I have you. It's time to come home..."

Fin.