AnCatKatie
Rock n' Roll Doggie ALL ACCESS
Once again, Gra-ace, you are such a mindreader! The beginning was lots of fun. *tips hat*
Not mine, not true, but definitely lots of fun, heh heh.
Edge would very much like to kiss Cath again. And punch Bono in the face.
***
The satisfaction from punching Isaac had swiftly faded away, replaced now with an indignant needle of fiery anger. Paul glared in front of him, sitting on a bench. In a cell. With very little light…but in a cell. In the gaol, the can, the clink, the slammer.
How are you going to get out of this one, Hewson? His thoughts sounded very much like Ali at the moment. …had he seen Ali at the bar? He thought she might have been there briefly. And where in hell had Cath gone?
Probably home. Probably wondering where she was. She would laugh, or yell at him, or something.
IF you get out.
The jailer hadn’t been the most straightforward guy, or the most talkative. He’d lumped Bono in with some drunks and slammed them all into a big cell and was definitely not listening. Paul had the hopeful impression he’d only be here for a night—but anyways, he’d have to be bailed out. He could not sweet-talk his way out of jail, no sir.
He felt vaguely tired, and dirty. He had at least gotten the satisfaction of beating the crap out of Isaac before he stumbled away and Paul was picked up by his collar and escorted to jail…the asphalt still burned across his skin, and had scraped up his jeans. He was sure the bastard was worse for wear than he was, however.
Maybe he’d been picking up on Edge’s anxiety; during the performance Edge seemed like he would practically die from worry about something, and hadn’t spoken two words together to he or the band.
Paul buried his head in his hands, rubbed his face, and looked up at the rising sea of voices around him. The various drunk men in the cell had left him alone, mostly, as Bono had tried to cultivate a ‘piss off’ expression on his face, modeled after the other, serious hard expressions on the faces of the actual criminals, who he was trying his best to steer clear of. Some of them gave him the goosebumps: a man sat underneath the window tapping away at the wall and giving a creepy grin to whoever spoke, his knuckles tattooed with something obscene; another shifty-eyed man picked his teeth with his fingernail and gave the finger to the jailer, a sort of danger in his quiet.
He tensed. One of the drunken sods was walking towards him, his face mostly indistinguishable. Younger than Bono would have guessed, though. He clapped a heavy hand on Bono’s shoulder, to which he shrugged away indifferently and tried not to glare.
“Wha’ ya here fer, boyo?” the man slurred. The others looked up keenly from where they were sprawled against the walls. The bad ones didn’t seem to care; Paul’s breath eased.
“Fighting in the streets,” Paul answered simply, sounding much less tired than he felt.
One of the drunks rolled bloodshot eyes. “Y’could ha’ been drinkin’ a’ least!” Another shook his head, muttering “Sober and the gaol. Now those don’t do together…”
Someone squinted at him. “Hey, you look familiar. Are you the kid what my sister’s screwing around with?”
Bon raised his eyebrows in a no and pushed himself with scraped hands into a straighter sitting position.
“He’s…he’s…” Another man had failed spectacularly at identifying him. “Damned if I know.”
The man near him, who had slid down to sit by the wall near him, grinning drunkenly and showing teeth Bono really, really did not need to see, squinted at Paul. “No…he’s the punk singin’ in the bar.”
“Is he really? He don’t look much like it.”
“Na wait, he does have that godawful hair,” the second man amended.
Bono did glare this time, then sighed, pushing a hand through his hair and thinking it might not be the best idea to comment on the godawful everything about the other men. Starting with the smell…and that creepy man’s smile…
“Wha’ ya doing in the can?”
Paul was pretty sure the first man was far gone, as drink normally didn’t mess with the memory much.
“Punched the bastard who raped my girlfriend,” he muttered back, looking up at the ceiling. God, I’m sorry for my behavior, however justified it certainly was. I’d love to think of someone to get me out of here, or at least some bloody—sorry—some sleep.
There were several disapproving comments towards said bastard, though the creepy man just grinned and kept tapping the wall. There was obviously no point in asking what the drunk guys were here for; they made it obvious—and concerning Creepy Man, Bono would rather not know.
Paul closed his eyes, scrunched up against the wall, wrapped his arms around his knees and rested his forehead against them, feeling once again very grimy from the grime surrounding him. He attempted to get some sleep, and even wavered off into a strange dream he didn’t like much, something about the northern lights and nearing footsteps and freezing to death.
He woke up, exasperated again, because something was being shoved into his side repeatedly.
“Yes?” Paul asked as calmly as he could the owner of the finger poking him. It was the man near him.
“Hey,” he said, “I think y’should sing us somethin’.”
There were a couple groans from the other men, and various words Paul assumed were assent. The creepy man closed his eyes, his foot taking over the finger-tapping, and said creepily, “sing, pretty boy.” Paul shuddered and decided that opinion would probably keep him out of harm’s way—maybe.
And, pretty boy? That felt insulting, although trying to counteract it with ugliness was equally so. Ugh.
He ignored Creepy Man, angling even farther from him, and walked over to the drunk men, who fondly called out various monikers they had devised for him, most of them terrible or inventive as “hey, you!”
“All right,” Paul sighed, warming to the task. “You probably won’t know this one…”
Cath woke, wondering what was different. Her surroundings filtered in and out for a moment—somewhere very white and rather warm, and someone held her. She realized then that it was easier to move, if she tried, and easier to think; the pain was gone. Ahh. That was relieving. She shoved out of her mind the other aspect of that, that the reason for the pain—whatever it was—was probably less relieving. That did not matter.
She turned around curiously, reveling in the painlessness, seeing there was a hospital gown loose around her shoulders. The arms around her were skinny—she saw Edge’s opening eyes, his face muzzy with sleep. Suddenly Cath remembered the moment before she had gone unconscious—just after she told him the pain had been unbearable—
He looked awfully happy, now, beneath the concern, his eyes bright, his smile quick. His bedhead hair stuck up everywhere in funny little poofy tufts.
Cath found her voice. “Where’s Paul?” she asked Edge, relaxing.
“I have no idea,” he replied, “and it’s morning now.
“Well, later in the morning,” he amended. Cath craned her head so she could look past him: the little clock on the machine monitoring her heartbeat read 11:58.
“Mm,” she commented. “Edge…what was I in here for?” she asked in a small voice. His answer vibrated through her body against his, which she found funny. He was holding her tighter. She could feel his heart thudding.
“You nearly had a miscarriage, and the fever came back on top of that.”
Cath was silent, looking forward at the sea of whiteness that was the hospital room. Her vision blurred a little and she blinked the wetness away.
“He should have been here,” she whispered.
“I know,” Edge said. He didn’t sound too disappointed in Bono, however, and Cath tried to puzzle that out. She closed her eyes and came up only with the shocked memory of Edge suddenly kissing her. She didn’t know what to think; it was impossible to analyze.
“David Evans,” she asked absently, brows drawing together, “…you kissed me…”
He couldn’t help it; he laughed, an infectious grin spreading over his face. “I did,” he replied, then grew still, wondering what she was leading to, hoping this would not hurt him. She just seemed…surprised.
“Why?” she asked, puzzled.
“You were in pain,” Edge said, though that was only the short answer. “And…well, I couldn’t really help myself.” When he had first met her, it had hit him like a weight, and minutes after when he found out she was Bono’s, that weight was replaced by another, more painful one…and yet he couldn’t help it.
“How long?” she asked him, still puzzled, all at once feeling terrible and like the earth had shifted under her.
“Since that day you burned the eggs,” Edge said gently, smiling. “When we met.”
“I had no idea,” she said softly. “Edge, I’m sorry…I’m sorry I didn’t notice.” That didn’t seem to be all she was sorry for—something else indecipherable. There was no clear answer Edge could find in Cath’s eyes; they reflected instead the hospital room. He wondered what he had been so stupid to think he would find, or she would think.
This, though, this uncertainty…it was better to be in denial of her rejection than to hear it. Better to have this than to have never experienced it at all.
There was a sound of the door opening; Edge looked up. The nurse walked in, seeming completely unperturbed. She would probably be unperturbed by anything, Edge thought slyly, wishing Cath weren’t so sick or so…already belonging to Paul Hewson. His heart sank.
“I didn’t want to wake you two up,” the nurse began cheerfully. “There’s an Alison Stewart on the phone.”
Edge swung off the bed reluctantly, slipping his shoes back on, loathe to leave Cath, and walked out the door.
Now it’s cold, Cath thought unhappily, folding her arms around herself and trying not to think of Edge kissing her—it was so odd—and instead wondering why Ali had called.
Edge picked up the phone. “Ali? It’s Edge.”
He heard a nervous laugh and was puzzled. “Yeah, the hospital was my last guess of your whereabouts,” Ali’s voice began.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Cath’s probably going to be in here a little while longer. I have no idea how long. The fever had better not come back, and…and…”
“What happened?”
Edge shook his head, banging his ear against the phone, and winced, remembering Ali obviously could not see him. “Well, Cath nearly miscarried. Scared the shit out of me.”
“Nearly mis—oh god.
This does not make things any better.”
“Ali? …do you know where Bono is?”
He felt like she was rolling her eyes. She probably was.
“I heard something about him being in jail.”
“—“ Edge made an angry sound. “Why the hell is he in jail?”
“I have no idea. Something minor. Anyway, your parents are concerned since they thought, for some reason, you were in jail with him—I had to convince them otherwise.”
“Tell them…” Hmm. What to tell them? “…I’m fine.
“I should stay far away from Bono when he gets out,” he muttered darkly. “I’d find some way for him to get back in jail again.”
“—?”
“Um.” Edge shifted from one foot to another. “Nevermind.” I kissed Cath I kissed Cath I kissed Cath… But now it just made him angry at the other man.
“Your parents also offered to bail him out. They were waiting to see if you were there too; didn’t want to do that for someone who wasn’t”
Edge rolled his eyes. “Guess they can do that.
“Listen, Ali, tell him whatever you want when he gets back, just please try not to freak him out too much. I don’t know if Cath can handle it. Too much excitement’s probably a bad idea.”
She replied in assent and they said goodbye, then he hung up.
“What did she call about?” Cath asked when he came back into the room. She was sitting up, hugging her knees.
Edge looked…kind of angry, Cath realized surprisedly. What had Ali done? He came and sat next to her and inadvertently reached up and smoothed her hair out of her face, his fingers slow. Even his little movements in relation to her held some energy of that kiss, Cath realized, blinking.
Not at her, he looked a little angry still, but amused.
“Well, I know what Bono’s gotten up to…
…you’re not going to like it, Cath.”
Not mine, not true, but definitely lots of fun, heh heh.
Edge would very much like to kiss Cath again. And punch Bono in the face.
***
The satisfaction from punching Isaac had swiftly faded away, replaced now with an indignant needle of fiery anger. Paul glared in front of him, sitting on a bench. In a cell. With very little light…but in a cell. In the gaol, the can, the clink, the slammer.
How are you going to get out of this one, Hewson? His thoughts sounded very much like Ali at the moment. …had he seen Ali at the bar? He thought she might have been there briefly. And where in hell had Cath gone?
Probably home. Probably wondering where she was. She would laugh, or yell at him, or something.
IF you get out.
The jailer hadn’t been the most straightforward guy, or the most talkative. He’d lumped Bono in with some drunks and slammed them all into a big cell and was definitely not listening. Paul had the hopeful impression he’d only be here for a night—but anyways, he’d have to be bailed out. He could not sweet-talk his way out of jail, no sir.
He felt vaguely tired, and dirty. He had at least gotten the satisfaction of beating the crap out of Isaac before he stumbled away and Paul was picked up by his collar and escorted to jail…the asphalt still burned across his skin, and had scraped up his jeans. He was sure the bastard was worse for wear than he was, however.
Maybe he’d been picking up on Edge’s anxiety; during the performance Edge seemed like he would practically die from worry about something, and hadn’t spoken two words together to he or the band.
Paul buried his head in his hands, rubbed his face, and looked up at the rising sea of voices around him. The various drunk men in the cell had left him alone, mostly, as Bono had tried to cultivate a ‘piss off’ expression on his face, modeled after the other, serious hard expressions on the faces of the actual criminals, who he was trying his best to steer clear of. Some of them gave him the goosebumps: a man sat underneath the window tapping away at the wall and giving a creepy grin to whoever spoke, his knuckles tattooed with something obscene; another shifty-eyed man picked his teeth with his fingernail and gave the finger to the jailer, a sort of danger in his quiet.
He tensed. One of the drunken sods was walking towards him, his face mostly indistinguishable. Younger than Bono would have guessed, though. He clapped a heavy hand on Bono’s shoulder, to which he shrugged away indifferently and tried not to glare.
“Wha’ ya here fer, boyo?” the man slurred. The others looked up keenly from where they were sprawled against the walls. The bad ones didn’t seem to care; Paul’s breath eased.
“Fighting in the streets,” Paul answered simply, sounding much less tired than he felt.
One of the drunks rolled bloodshot eyes. “Y’could ha’ been drinkin’ a’ least!” Another shook his head, muttering “Sober and the gaol. Now those don’t do together…”
Someone squinted at him. “Hey, you look familiar. Are you the kid what my sister’s screwing around with?”
Bon raised his eyebrows in a no and pushed himself with scraped hands into a straighter sitting position.
“He’s…he’s…” Another man had failed spectacularly at identifying him. “Damned if I know.”
The man near him, who had slid down to sit by the wall near him, grinning drunkenly and showing teeth Bono really, really did not need to see, squinted at Paul. “No…he’s the punk singin’ in the bar.”
“Is he really? He don’t look much like it.”
“Na wait, he does have that godawful hair,” the second man amended.
Bono did glare this time, then sighed, pushing a hand through his hair and thinking it might not be the best idea to comment on the godawful everything about the other men. Starting with the smell…and that creepy man’s smile…
“Wha’ ya doing in the can?”
Paul was pretty sure the first man was far gone, as drink normally didn’t mess with the memory much.
“Punched the bastard who raped my girlfriend,” he muttered back, looking up at the ceiling. God, I’m sorry for my behavior, however justified it certainly was. I’d love to think of someone to get me out of here, or at least some bloody—sorry—some sleep.
There were several disapproving comments towards said bastard, though the creepy man just grinned and kept tapping the wall. There was obviously no point in asking what the drunk guys were here for; they made it obvious—and concerning Creepy Man, Bono would rather not know.
Paul closed his eyes, scrunched up against the wall, wrapped his arms around his knees and rested his forehead against them, feeling once again very grimy from the grime surrounding him. He attempted to get some sleep, and even wavered off into a strange dream he didn’t like much, something about the northern lights and nearing footsteps and freezing to death.
He woke up, exasperated again, because something was being shoved into his side repeatedly.
“Yes?” Paul asked as calmly as he could the owner of the finger poking him. It was the man near him.
“Hey,” he said, “I think y’should sing us somethin’.”
There were a couple groans from the other men, and various words Paul assumed were assent. The creepy man closed his eyes, his foot taking over the finger-tapping, and said creepily, “sing, pretty boy.” Paul shuddered and decided that opinion would probably keep him out of harm’s way—maybe.
And, pretty boy? That felt insulting, although trying to counteract it with ugliness was equally so. Ugh.
He ignored Creepy Man, angling even farther from him, and walked over to the drunk men, who fondly called out various monikers they had devised for him, most of them terrible or inventive as “hey, you!”
“All right,” Paul sighed, warming to the task. “You probably won’t know this one…”
Cath woke, wondering what was different. Her surroundings filtered in and out for a moment—somewhere very white and rather warm, and someone held her. She realized then that it was easier to move, if she tried, and easier to think; the pain was gone. Ahh. That was relieving. She shoved out of her mind the other aspect of that, that the reason for the pain—whatever it was—was probably less relieving. That did not matter.
She turned around curiously, reveling in the painlessness, seeing there was a hospital gown loose around her shoulders. The arms around her were skinny—she saw Edge’s opening eyes, his face muzzy with sleep. Suddenly Cath remembered the moment before she had gone unconscious—just after she told him the pain had been unbearable—
He looked awfully happy, now, beneath the concern, his eyes bright, his smile quick. His bedhead hair stuck up everywhere in funny little poofy tufts.
Cath found her voice. “Where’s Paul?” she asked Edge, relaxing.
“I have no idea,” he replied, “and it’s morning now.
“Well, later in the morning,” he amended. Cath craned her head so she could look past him: the little clock on the machine monitoring her heartbeat read 11:58.
“Mm,” she commented. “Edge…what was I in here for?” she asked in a small voice. His answer vibrated through her body against his, which she found funny. He was holding her tighter. She could feel his heart thudding.
“You nearly had a miscarriage, and the fever came back on top of that.”
Cath was silent, looking forward at the sea of whiteness that was the hospital room. Her vision blurred a little and she blinked the wetness away.
“He should have been here,” she whispered.
“I know,” Edge said. He didn’t sound too disappointed in Bono, however, and Cath tried to puzzle that out. She closed her eyes and came up only with the shocked memory of Edge suddenly kissing her. She didn’t know what to think; it was impossible to analyze.
“David Evans,” she asked absently, brows drawing together, “…you kissed me…”
He couldn’t help it; he laughed, an infectious grin spreading over his face. “I did,” he replied, then grew still, wondering what she was leading to, hoping this would not hurt him. She just seemed…surprised.
“Why?” she asked, puzzled.
“You were in pain,” Edge said, though that was only the short answer. “And…well, I couldn’t really help myself.” When he had first met her, it had hit him like a weight, and minutes after when he found out she was Bono’s, that weight was replaced by another, more painful one…and yet he couldn’t help it.
“How long?” she asked him, still puzzled, all at once feeling terrible and like the earth had shifted under her.
“Since that day you burned the eggs,” Edge said gently, smiling. “When we met.”
“I had no idea,” she said softly. “Edge, I’m sorry…I’m sorry I didn’t notice.” That didn’t seem to be all she was sorry for—something else indecipherable. There was no clear answer Edge could find in Cath’s eyes; they reflected instead the hospital room. He wondered what he had been so stupid to think he would find, or she would think.
This, though, this uncertainty…it was better to be in denial of her rejection than to hear it. Better to have this than to have never experienced it at all.
There was a sound of the door opening; Edge looked up. The nurse walked in, seeming completely unperturbed. She would probably be unperturbed by anything, Edge thought slyly, wishing Cath weren’t so sick or so…already belonging to Paul Hewson. His heart sank.
“I didn’t want to wake you two up,” the nurse began cheerfully. “There’s an Alison Stewart on the phone.”
Edge swung off the bed reluctantly, slipping his shoes back on, loathe to leave Cath, and walked out the door.
Now it’s cold, Cath thought unhappily, folding her arms around herself and trying not to think of Edge kissing her—it was so odd—and instead wondering why Ali had called.
Edge picked up the phone. “Ali? It’s Edge.”
He heard a nervous laugh and was puzzled. “Yeah, the hospital was my last guess of your whereabouts,” Ali’s voice began.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Cath’s probably going to be in here a little while longer. I have no idea how long. The fever had better not come back, and…and…”
“What happened?”
Edge shook his head, banging his ear against the phone, and winced, remembering Ali obviously could not see him. “Well, Cath nearly miscarried. Scared the shit out of me.”
“Nearly mis—oh god.
This does not make things any better.”
“Ali? …do you know where Bono is?”
He felt like she was rolling her eyes. She probably was.
“I heard something about him being in jail.”
“—“ Edge made an angry sound. “Why the hell is he in jail?”
“I have no idea. Something minor. Anyway, your parents are concerned since they thought, for some reason, you were in jail with him—I had to convince them otherwise.”
“Tell them…” Hmm. What to tell them? “…I’m fine.
“I should stay far away from Bono when he gets out,” he muttered darkly. “I’d find some way for him to get back in jail again.”
“—?”
“Um.” Edge shifted from one foot to another. “Nevermind.” I kissed Cath I kissed Cath I kissed Cath… But now it just made him angry at the other man.
“Your parents also offered to bail him out. They were waiting to see if you were there too; didn’t want to do that for someone who wasn’t”
Edge rolled his eyes. “Guess they can do that.
“Listen, Ali, tell him whatever you want when he gets back, just please try not to freak him out too much. I don’t know if Cath can handle it. Too much excitement’s probably a bad idea.”
She replied in assent and they said goodbye, then he hung up.
“What did she call about?” Cath asked when he came back into the room. She was sitting up, hugging her knees.
Edge looked…kind of angry, Cath realized surprisedly. What had Ali done? He came and sat next to her and inadvertently reached up and smoothed her hair out of her face, his fingers slow. Even his little movements in relation to her held some energy of that kiss, Cath realized, blinking.
Not at her, he looked a little angry still, but amused.
“Well, I know what Bono’s gotten up to…
…you’re not going to like it, Cath.”
Yeah, that's a good word...
