AnCatKatie
Rock n' Roll Doggie ALL ACCESS
If it wasn't made clear enough by the dizziness in the last chapter, Cath's not doing so great.
Not mine, etc etc, and not true, song lyrics excepted.
Sorry this one's so short...even Tears For Fears and some Red Rocks watching wasn't helping me...
***
They hadn’t realized Edge’s absence until Larry tried to call him. “Edge?” he said into the phone in a rather irritated fashion while Bono sprawled sleepily over the couch in the studio, holding a scribbled page of lyrics close to his face, trying to decipher the meaning. He kept glancing over at the phone and wondering what Edge was doing.
“Hey, Edge?” Larry asked again, rolling his eyes. No response, the line flat and static as the telephone lines had been a few days before.
“Wonder where he is,” Larry commented, setting the phone down on the receiver.
Bono finally managed to walk over to Edge’s place, the cold slapping him awake. It was just edging into that bone-biting cold of deep winter when all you wanted to do was hide under the covers and wait for the storms to pass; his coat did little against the chill, his breath making little sculptures of fog before dissipating.
He knocked on the door, wincing at winter biting into his hand. There was a long moment. Then he heard a door-muffled “come in” that sounded like Edge, and “the door’s open.”
Edge was just inside, perched on the edge of the bathtub, looking up with an odd mixture of challenge and understanding which Bono had begun to get used to recently. His face had reddened from the cold, and he looked like he hadn't slept. He was rubbing a towel over his naked feet vigorously and shoved on socks then straightened and exited, Bono following companiably.
The predawn hush had fallen over the world, everything still and perfect and draped in nighttime. Edge noted Cath was probably asleep, thinking of her automatically though it was against what was better for her, for him to be back. He had stood in the empty, frozen beach road, his breath frosting in the air, the waves cold as glass on the horizon, his shadow long and impenetrable, before some decision flickered in his eyes, a spark of memory: that instant when Cath had turned away from contemplating the road and her hand came away from the strap of her traveling bag, and he had known.
It was good to get out into the open, to be able to think. It was not what he had come there for, but at the bottom of his thoughts he had known he wouldn’t be able to leave.
Edge shoved his hands in his pockets and gave that challenging look to Paul again, who tried to decipher it. It was one part Edge looking at them as equals, one part his inscrutable thoughts beneath his eyes, one part acceptance and one part indecipherable—but oddly seemed a little like rebellion.
The other boy was few of words as they went to the studio. Edge seemed a little more sociable than he had been for the past few weeks—whatever that was, Bono didn’t want to know; David Evans tended to deal with his problems on his own—and was friendly enough, but enough only. But some of the worry inside Paul unknotted and his breath came easier, that he sensed his friend was less troubled than he had been.
It was warm when Cath awoke; she was relieved. The night before, walking to the studio with Paul, they had both been blowing on their fingers to keep warm then giving up and grabbing each others’ hands. She had the constant urge to be outside and moving, despite how freezing it had been lately, and winter made that difficult. She looked down again at her pregnant belly in reflection: if she wanted to do anything it would be difficult after the next couple months, never mind winter.
She moved her head, looking out the window: it was bright and somewhere between ice and melting today. She squinted, groaning, when she rose, throwing clothes she didn’t look at on. Her entire body ached. She glared at the coffee downstairs rather than having breakfast before dropping her head down onto folded arms, willing the slow fire everywhere to go away. Finally she walked into the kitchen and splashed some water onto her face, and that helped somewhat.
She fell asleep on the couch, the warmth of the sun comfortable across her back. In the darkness swirling behind her eyes, she dreamed she heard Paul’s voice singing, the rest of the band onstage, but he had his arms around her, forehead pressed to hers, eyes closed, and they danced far too slowly for the music. He tried to tell her something, but it was also music and unintelligible, and she only smiled as he finally grew silent. The door opening woke her up. She flattened her sleep-mussed hair and smiled exhaustedly at Bono, who drew her into his arms. She promptly pushed him away—he was cold from outside!—and wandered over to the kitchen, downing what seemed like an awful lot of milk to Bono and then the rest of his toast, while he looked on in disbelief.
“It’s like you’re eating for ten people,” he said incredulously. She made a face.
“Where were you this morning?” she asked curiously. She hadn’t woken until it was nearly afternoon, when the rest of the band had come into the studio and made noise.
“We were chasing Edge all over the place, having no idea where he was.”
She gave him a look of sympathy. “He has a lot on his mind.”
“Yeah, he’s just not bloody sharing it with us. Fine by me, until we have to go look for him when he doesn’t show up for finishing the record.” He sat down. “I’m exhausted, love.” She came over and curled up beside him, barely noticing that he drifted off to sleep, only the faint pain that still lingered throughout her body.
She didn’t mention it, knowing he would call off the performance tonight. For a few hours in the afternoon, she felt fine, and went outside and ran giddily until the air around her seemed warm and her legs burned pleasantly from the exertion.
Her energy had faded slightly by nighttime, when they entered the bar U2 would be playing at that night. She sat down at the far wall, closing her eyes for a long moment.
Edge must have noticed something. He slung his guitar away from his body and handed it to Adam; there were still a few minutes before they would start. Disappearing into the crowd, he made his way over to where Cath sat, noticing how she leaned entirely against the wall. His longing dimmed and changed into faint concern…he wondered briefly how he would be able to play tonight—would the guitar twist in his hands, would he be unable to, too focused on making sure Cath didn’t pass out or something?
She caught on to how perceptive he was, and gave him a faintly anxious look before seeking to distract him. The first thing that popped out of her mouth was “where’s Ali?”
Edge laughed quietly. “She’s off with some man she met yesterday. Can’t say I blame her.
“Cath,” he said more quietly, his eyes intense, “are you okay?”
She realized he would keep silent about it, and answered in a voice that didn’t carry, in case Paul could hear, “It’s been painful to move for most of the day. I haven’t told him.”
Edge looked like he wanted to say something, his eyes communicating something important as he looked back, having been called to the stage by another member of the band. Cath’s eyes were closed; she didn’t see.
The music was, if anything, more powerful that night, though Edge felt he was a little reserved with the guitar: his attentions were indeed elsewhere. The worry in him amplified and screamed through his fingers, somehow becoming music, and somehow he could mask what he thought and knew from the rest of the band.
He looked up again, surfacing from the music, and his heart thudded when he realized Cath had gone. He made himself play through the rest of the songs, the chords familiar to his fingers and playing in the air before him the fears of why Cath might not be there.
He finally practically ran offstage, pushing past the people, and into the biting cold air outside, and seeing a familiar figure in the distance, ran over. He hardly noticed the guitar bumping against his back with each footstep, sharp against his shoulderblade.
Cath sat at the side of the building, looking out into the night. She looked up when he neared. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It was too loud in there.”
He only looked at her, his eyes stinging. She straightened and stood a little shakily, saying “I’ll go tell him I’m going home—“ but abruptly steadying herself against the building, eyes shut tight again.
“He’ll know,” Edge said. “Someone will tell him.” He held out his hand and she looked at it momentarily as if she’d forgotten what hands were for, then grabbed onto his arm and managed to walk, supported, back home.
The night had quieted, to Edge, fading into the footsteps he took and Cath’s footsteps, and the warm weight of her body leaning against him. He cursed himself inwardly, thinking he should have said something to Bono—even though Cath would hate him if he had—it frightened Edge more that he had no idea when the singer would return home, and when they could figure out what was going on.
Cath’s feet dragged a few blocks later, and Edge sighed, hiding his quickening heart and the heat that rushed to his cheeks, and with little difficulty carried Cath the rest of the way. The tightness of hopelessness in his chest that he had felt earlier that day, returning home, eased a little.
Cath, meanwhile, fell into sleep, the sound of Edge’s heartbeat reassuring, coming oceanic through her sleep and interrupting the images and thoughts that visited her briefly…and she wondered what Paul had seen in the crowd that had made him tense so visibly. He didn’t need more to worry about…
Not mine, etc etc, and not true, song lyrics excepted.
Sorry this one's so short...even Tears For Fears and some Red Rocks watching wasn't helping me...
***
They hadn’t realized Edge’s absence until Larry tried to call him. “Edge?” he said into the phone in a rather irritated fashion while Bono sprawled sleepily over the couch in the studio, holding a scribbled page of lyrics close to his face, trying to decipher the meaning. He kept glancing over at the phone and wondering what Edge was doing.
“Hey, Edge?” Larry asked again, rolling his eyes. No response, the line flat and static as the telephone lines had been a few days before.
“Wonder where he is,” Larry commented, setting the phone down on the receiver.
Bono finally managed to walk over to Edge’s place, the cold slapping him awake. It was just edging into that bone-biting cold of deep winter when all you wanted to do was hide under the covers and wait for the storms to pass; his coat did little against the chill, his breath making little sculptures of fog before dissipating.
He knocked on the door, wincing at winter biting into his hand. There was a long moment. Then he heard a door-muffled “come in” that sounded like Edge, and “the door’s open.”
Edge was just inside, perched on the edge of the bathtub, looking up with an odd mixture of challenge and understanding which Bono had begun to get used to recently. His face had reddened from the cold, and he looked like he hadn't slept. He was rubbing a towel over his naked feet vigorously and shoved on socks then straightened and exited, Bono following companiably.
The predawn hush had fallen over the world, everything still and perfect and draped in nighttime. Edge noted Cath was probably asleep, thinking of her automatically though it was against what was better for her, for him to be back. He had stood in the empty, frozen beach road, his breath frosting in the air, the waves cold as glass on the horizon, his shadow long and impenetrable, before some decision flickered in his eyes, a spark of memory: that instant when Cath had turned away from contemplating the road and her hand came away from the strap of her traveling bag, and he had known.
It was good to get out into the open, to be able to think. It was not what he had come there for, but at the bottom of his thoughts he had known he wouldn’t be able to leave.
Edge shoved his hands in his pockets and gave that challenging look to Paul again, who tried to decipher it. It was one part Edge looking at them as equals, one part his inscrutable thoughts beneath his eyes, one part acceptance and one part indecipherable—but oddly seemed a little like rebellion.
The other boy was few of words as they went to the studio. Edge seemed a little more sociable than he had been for the past few weeks—whatever that was, Bono didn’t want to know; David Evans tended to deal with his problems on his own—and was friendly enough, but enough only. But some of the worry inside Paul unknotted and his breath came easier, that he sensed his friend was less troubled than he had been.
It was warm when Cath awoke; she was relieved. The night before, walking to the studio with Paul, they had both been blowing on their fingers to keep warm then giving up and grabbing each others’ hands. She had the constant urge to be outside and moving, despite how freezing it had been lately, and winter made that difficult. She looked down again at her pregnant belly in reflection: if she wanted to do anything it would be difficult after the next couple months, never mind winter.
She moved her head, looking out the window: it was bright and somewhere between ice and melting today. She squinted, groaning, when she rose, throwing clothes she didn’t look at on. Her entire body ached. She glared at the coffee downstairs rather than having breakfast before dropping her head down onto folded arms, willing the slow fire everywhere to go away. Finally she walked into the kitchen and splashed some water onto her face, and that helped somewhat.
She fell asleep on the couch, the warmth of the sun comfortable across her back. In the darkness swirling behind her eyes, she dreamed she heard Paul’s voice singing, the rest of the band onstage, but he had his arms around her, forehead pressed to hers, eyes closed, and they danced far too slowly for the music. He tried to tell her something, but it was also music and unintelligible, and she only smiled as he finally grew silent. The door opening woke her up. She flattened her sleep-mussed hair and smiled exhaustedly at Bono, who drew her into his arms. She promptly pushed him away—he was cold from outside!—and wandered over to the kitchen, downing what seemed like an awful lot of milk to Bono and then the rest of his toast, while he looked on in disbelief.
“It’s like you’re eating for ten people,” he said incredulously. She made a face.
“Where were you this morning?” she asked curiously. She hadn’t woken until it was nearly afternoon, when the rest of the band had come into the studio and made noise.
“We were chasing Edge all over the place, having no idea where he was.”
She gave him a look of sympathy. “He has a lot on his mind.”
“Yeah, he’s just not bloody sharing it with us. Fine by me, until we have to go look for him when he doesn’t show up for finishing the record.” He sat down. “I’m exhausted, love.” She came over and curled up beside him, barely noticing that he drifted off to sleep, only the faint pain that still lingered throughout her body.
She didn’t mention it, knowing he would call off the performance tonight. For a few hours in the afternoon, she felt fine, and went outside and ran giddily until the air around her seemed warm and her legs burned pleasantly from the exertion.
Her energy had faded slightly by nighttime, when they entered the bar U2 would be playing at that night. She sat down at the far wall, closing her eyes for a long moment.
Edge must have noticed something. He slung his guitar away from his body and handed it to Adam; there were still a few minutes before they would start. Disappearing into the crowd, he made his way over to where Cath sat, noticing how she leaned entirely against the wall. His longing dimmed and changed into faint concern…he wondered briefly how he would be able to play tonight—would the guitar twist in his hands, would he be unable to, too focused on making sure Cath didn’t pass out or something?
She caught on to how perceptive he was, and gave him a faintly anxious look before seeking to distract him. The first thing that popped out of her mouth was “where’s Ali?”
Edge laughed quietly. “She’s off with some man she met yesterday. Can’t say I blame her.
“Cath,” he said more quietly, his eyes intense, “are you okay?”
She realized he would keep silent about it, and answered in a voice that didn’t carry, in case Paul could hear, “It’s been painful to move for most of the day. I haven’t told him.”
Edge looked like he wanted to say something, his eyes communicating something important as he looked back, having been called to the stage by another member of the band. Cath’s eyes were closed; she didn’t see.
The music was, if anything, more powerful that night, though Edge felt he was a little reserved with the guitar: his attentions were indeed elsewhere. The worry in him amplified and screamed through his fingers, somehow becoming music, and somehow he could mask what he thought and knew from the rest of the band.
He looked up again, surfacing from the music, and his heart thudded when he realized Cath had gone. He made himself play through the rest of the songs, the chords familiar to his fingers and playing in the air before him the fears of why Cath might not be there.
He finally practically ran offstage, pushing past the people, and into the biting cold air outside, and seeing a familiar figure in the distance, ran over. He hardly noticed the guitar bumping against his back with each footstep, sharp against his shoulderblade.
Cath sat at the side of the building, looking out into the night. She looked up when he neared. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It was too loud in there.”
He only looked at her, his eyes stinging. She straightened and stood a little shakily, saying “I’ll go tell him I’m going home—“ but abruptly steadying herself against the building, eyes shut tight again.
“He’ll know,” Edge said. “Someone will tell him.” He held out his hand and she looked at it momentarily as if she’d forgotten what hands were for, then grabbed onto his arm and managed to walk, supported, back home.
The night had quieted, to Edge, fading into the footsteps he took and Cath’s footsteps, and the warm weight of her body leaning against him. He cursed himself inwardly, thinking he should have said something to Bono—even though Cath would hate him if he had—it frightened Edge more that he had no idea when the singer would return home, and when they could figure out what was going on.
Cath’s feet dragged a few blocks later, and Edge sighed, hiding his quickening heart and the heat that rushed to his cheeks, and with little difficulty carried Cath the rest of the way. The tightness of hopelessness in his chest that he had felt earlier that day, returning home, eased a little.
Cath, meanwhile, fell into sleep, the sound of Edge’s heartbeat reassuring, coming oceanic through her sleep and interrupting the images and thoughts that visited her briefly…and she wondered what Paul had seen in the crowd that had made him tense so visibly. He didn’t need more to worry about…
He's truly the hero in this story! 
Gah!
Who? Moi? 
What can I say. Edge is seexxxxxxxxy. He put the X in Sex! Shit, girl, don't you know that Edge is bringing sexy back?
