AnCatKatie
Rock n' Roll Doggie ALL ACCESS
GOSH LARRY. GOSH ADAM. Stop being so immature 
Edge is a big ball of angst...
And babies do tend to resemble their fathers earlier on, though whether that resemblance stays, I have no idea. Helpful Psych class is helpful! And the blue eyes bit is true as well.
This will be one very freckly kid if he gets out into sunlight...
***
That face had a powerful grip on Bono. He slept in the orange plastic chair again that night—for some reason they weren’t releasing Cath from the hospital yet—feeling oddly light, like anything negative within him had suddenly pulled away into the sky and he ran far ahead of any problems. He woke up with far too little sleep and kissed Cath awake. She stirred and turned over, murmuring something about Ciáran, who she had given to Bono; he held the tiny boy and stared back into those eyes. They were a kind of dark blue he had been informed were always the color of babies’ eyes when they were just born.
He didn’t think he was imagining it; in the morning light, the kid did look a little like him. Ciarán’s face had grown calmer, less raw and reddened than when he had been born. He had a little pointy chin that was certainly Cath’s, enormous eyes, and that nose looked rather familiar, though it was more refined than his, a little smaller and slightly like Cath’s. The baby’s head had a faint covering of dark hair. It was very soft. His head and his little body were very warm in Paul’s arms. Ciarán wriggled crossly as well he could when being held and shoved an small fist into Paul’s side; he laughed. The baby turned his head a little, his lips grasping against the side of Paul’s finger wetly, the top lip curving slightly and closing again disappointedly.
“Uh-oh,” Bono realized. He shook Cath awake. Her eyes were only half-open; she had tried to fall into sleep, and had her arms folded tightly over her stomach; a little fiery twinge of pain still hadn’t gone away.
“Yes, Paul?”
“Good morning, love.” He bent to kiss her; her eyelids fluttered awake reluctantly, and she took the wriggling Ciarán from Paul, chuckling slightly. He was tiny but quite insistently demanding sustenance. She nursed him and nearly fell back asleep, baby warm and sleepy against her chest, Paul pillowed beside her on the hospital bed.
“Paul,” she whispered, “I’m so tired…would you watch him until the doctors need him again?” He nodded. “Just don’t turn over or anything, Cath.” She nodded, let her head turn to the side again, and fell into sleep like over a precipice. Sleep hit her fast and hard, bringing the images it had when she was drained from the pain of labor, entering the hospital. The darkness was an ocean; she swam through it and through the intense flashes of recent memory she saw Edge looking at her wildly and pleading with her body for nothing to go wrong. But no, he held a scrap of paper, and it was months ago: Edge pocketed the hospital form and looked troubled into the October dawn.
And Cath thought, but gradually her thoughts too grew more exhausted and she fell even faster into a true, dreamless, worriless sleep.
“Edge,” she asked him when she awoke to find Edge and the rest of the band in her room. “Would you do something for me?” He nodded. “You or Paul…could you find my brother? Oisín? Paul knows where he is.
“Anyways, it might be a few days until I get to leave here—“—Edge looked at her sharply at that, but said nothing—“—and he could be gone from then.”
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll try. Your baby boy’s beautiful, by the way.” He couldn’t stop himself from reaching over and brushing his fingers over hers briefly, the contact saying what he couldn’t say in front of Bono.
“He looks a little like me!” the man himself commented, beaming down at Ciáran in his arms, who stared at him crosseyed and very intently.
“This kid is going to be trouble,” Adam commented, grinning. “Screaming mess…much like Bono Vox. You two will do well together.”
“Not so sure about the band,” Larry muttered. Paul shooed them away. He looked up suddenly at Cath, something about his expression lost. He must have seen the look in Edge’s eyes—not the one attached to Cath, but the one behind that attachment, swifter and more serious. Paul settled Ciarán back a little against his chest, eliciting a little distraught squeal, and crossed over to Cath, kneeling and wrapping an arm around her.
“Is everything okay, love?”
“I’m just tired. I’ll be fine.” Ciarán made a little burbling sound and squirmed again then settled more tightly against Bono’s chest, pulling at the fabric of his shirt with unsure little fists. She took him and let him lie against her chest again until he found what he was looking for; Larry blushed and looked away (“she was naked earlier, Lar, man up!” Edge needled him). Cath really did not care about any nakedness at this point. She let rest settle over her like a second skin, calmly as the warm little presence pillowed against her, and washed in and out of awareness.
Edge exited the hospital, calling over his shoulder to Bono that he was looking for Oisín. Edge searched for about an hour and was unsuccessful, remembering that it was Bono who knew where the guy might be, and ended up curling up into a little ball on the floor of the studio and finally getting some sleep. He didn’t feel right intruding upon them in the hospital, and everyone had been sitting in there for days.
He walked over to his house, shoving his freezing hands in his pockets, his shadow creating a long blue-dark line across the road. It warmed up a little as he walked, though it was still the time of year when the leaves refused to show the barest hint of themselves peeking into existence, and the trees still looked frozen, lines of thawing darkness against the sky.
When he walked in, he sat down on the couch—and a little scrap of whiteness caught his eye. He bent down, picked the paper up, and looked thoughtfully at the hospital discharge paper Cath had found.
Maybe he was wrong. He wasn’t so sure. They had had no time to speak, and Cath seemed exhausted.
He lay down on the couch, breathing out in relieved weariness, and fell straight into sleep. He was woken by the telephone ringing.
“No, I couldn’t find him. Maybe you should try later, Bon.”
“I have a kid, Edge! I have no idea what to do. I can’t just leave.”
“Bono, you’re going to need to get sleep sometime.”
“I can—“
Edge cut him off, shifting the telephone to the other ear and frowning exasperatedly. He stretched, feeling a little more rested.
“Nah, Bono, you’ll be able to see Cath after you get some sleep. Now go home and stay home for at least eight hours.”
“Edge—“
“No, I’m not your bleedin’ ma, but you are going to pass out on the floor and drop the baby. And then won’t you feel stupid?”
Bono made an irritated little noise that included some defeat.
“All right,” he said. “Mind if I crash at your place?”
“Go ahead.” Score two for me. Edge grinned.
About half an hour later, Bono was lying facedown on the couch, snoring loudly and definitely fast asleep. Edge looked at him with raised eyebrows: the man really needed a shower, but at the moment he was so bone-wearily pressed into the couch that Edge did not want to wake him.
He walked quietly to the front door, clicked it shut and sat on the front step, thinking. Paul was dead to the world asleep, so did not hear when Edge took the car and drove back to the hospital. It was mid-morning when Edge arrived, and Cath woke with a little more strength, surprised that Paul was gone.
“He’s getting some sleep,” Edge said. “Good,” Cath sighed with relief, speaking softly so Ciarán wouldn’t wake. His eyes were shut tightly closed and he had one hand clutching Cath’s collarbone. The doctors had done their basic checkup and determined him fit enough for Cath to steal him back, and they were doing pretty well together, both catching up on sleep also. Ciarán didn’t shift around too much, so she didn’t wake at odd hours, and Cath didn’t turn over or do anything loud.
Cath and Edge spoke briefly, after which he just looked at her for a long moment, unable to speak. She let her head fall back and the morning fill her eyes, and lay motionless, looking back up at him with a faint desperation in her gaze that fell away after a while.
“Edge,” she told him quietly, “he’ll work through it, won’t he?”
He nodded, swallowing. “I don’t know how.”
She smiled sadly and motioned him to come stand next to where she lay. Her fingers brushed against his shoulders lightly—he shivered with the weight of what hadn’t been said—so that he knelt at eye level. She tilted her head and looked into his eyes intently. His expression hit her hard, bittersweet hopeless accusation he didn’t know where to direct. Edge took hardship differently than Bono; it merged into his being like a little shadow, a mirror of himself that blended so completely, hammering into his heart, that it was almost unseen.
“It’ll be alright,” she told him very seriously, and let her hands rest on the sides of his head briefly before drawing them back to herself. She tilted her head, smiling, looking at Ciarán, who was huddled up against her, his tiny little wisp of hair tickling against her chest.
“You two haven’t really met yet, have you?”
Edge inhaled, sharply buried what he had been feeling, and considered Ciarán with a profound sense of attachment. Very carefully, he placed a hand across the baby’s back, and his head, and turned him over, gathering Ciarán in his arms. Edge trembled slightly, the only remnants of the world changing. Ciarán shifted a little and butted his head faintly against Edge’s body. Edge didn’t know what to think. He set the baby back in Cath’s arms; she smiled at him—and he exited the room, turning to the anonymity of the wall, where she couldn’t see, and leaning against it, trying to calm himself down.
He wished, very briefly, he was Paul Hewson and problems like this did not exist.
Edge is a big ball of angst...
And babies do tend to resemble their fathers earlier on, though whether that resemblance stays, I have no idea. Helpful Psych class is helpful! And the blue eyes bit is true as well.
This will be one very freckly kid if he gets out into sunlight...
***
That face had a powerful grip on Bono. He slept in the orange plastic chair again that night—for some reason they weren’t releasing Cath from the hospital yet—feeling oddly light, like anything negative within him had suddenly pulled away into the sky and he ran far ahead of any problems. He woke up with far too little sleep and kissed Cath awake. She stirred and turned over, murmuring something about Ciáran, who she had given to Bono; he held the tiny boy and stared back into those eyes. They were a kind of dark blue he had been informed were always the color of babies’ eyes when they were just born.
He didn’t think he was imagining it; in the morning light, the kid did look a little like him. Ciarán’s face had grown calmer, less raw and reddened than when he had been born. He had a little pointy chin that was certainly Cath’s, enormous eyes, and that nose looked rather familiar, though it was more refined than his, a little smaller and slightly like Cath’s. The baby’s head had a faint covering of dark hair. It was very soft. His head and his little body were very warm in Paul’s arms. Ciarán wriggled crossly as well he could when being held and shoved an small fist into Paul’s side; he laughed. The baby turned his head a little, his lips grasping against the side of Paul’s finger wetly, the top lip curving slightly and closing again disappointedly.
“Uh-oh,” Bono realized. He shook Cath awake. Her eyes were only half-open; she had tried to fall into sleep, and had her arms folded tightly over her stomach; a little fiery twinge of pain still hadn’t gone away.
“Yes, Paul?”
“Good morning, love.” He bent to kiss her; her eyelids fluttered awake reluctantly, and she took the wriggling Ciarán from Paul, chuckling slightly. He was tiny but quite insistently demanding sustenance. She nursed him and nearly fell back asleep, baby warm and sleepy against her chest, Paul pillowed beside her on the hospital bed.
“Paul,” she whispered, “I’m so tired…would you watch him until the doctors need him again?” He nodded. “Just don’t turn over or anything, Cath.” She nodded, let her head turn to the side again, and fell into sleep like over a precipice. Sleep hit her fast and hard, bringing the images it had when she was drained from the pain of labor, entering the hospital. The darkness was an ocean; she swam through it and through the intense flashes of recent memory she saw Edge looking at her wildly and pleading with her body for nothing to go wrong. But no, he held a scrap of paper, and it was months ago: Edge pocketed the hospital form and looked troubled into the October dawn.
And Cath thought, but gradually her thoughts too grew more exhausted and she fell even faster into a true, dreamless, worriless sleep.
“Edge,” she asked him when she awoke to find Edge and the rest of the band in her room. “Would you do something for me?” He nodded. “You or Paul…could you find my brother? Oisín? Paul knows where he is.
“Anyways, it might be a few days until I get to leave here—“—Edge looked at her sharply at that, but said nothing—“—and he could be gone from then.”
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll try. Your baby boy’s beautiful, by the way.” He couldn’t stop himself from reaching over and brushing his fingers over hers briefly, the contact saying what he couldn’t say in front of Bono.
“He looks a little like me!” the man himself commented, beaming down at Ciáran in his arms, who stared at him crosseyed and very intently.
“This kid is going to be trouble,” Adam commented, grinning. “Screaming mess…much like Bono Vox. You two will do well together.”
“Not so sure about the band,” Larry muttered. Paul shooed them away. He looked up suddenly at Cath, something about his expression lost. He must have seen the look in Edge’s eyes—not the one attached to Cath, but the one behind that attachment, swifter and more serious. Paul settled Ciarán back a little against his chest, eliciting a little distraught squeal, and crossed over to Cath, kneeling and wrapping an arm around her.
“Is everything okay, love?”
“I’m just tired. I’ll be fine.” Ciarán made a little burbling sound and squirmed again then settled more tightly against Bono’s chest, pulling at the fabric of his shirt with unsure little fists. She took him and let him lie against her chest again until he found what he was looking for; Larry blushed and looked away (“she was naked earlier, Lar, man up!” Edge needled him). Cath really did not care about any nakedness at this point. She let rest settle over her like a second skin, calmly as the warm little presence pillowed against her, and washed in and out of awareness.
Edge exited the hospital, calling over his shoulder to Bono that he was looking for Oisín. Edge searched for about an hour and was unsuccessful, remembering that it was Bono who knew where the guy might be, and ended up curling up into a little ball on the floor of the studio and finally getting some sleep. He didn’t feel right intruding upon them in the hospital, and everyone had been sitting in there for days.
He walked over to his house, shoving his freezing hands in his pockets, his shadow creating a long blue-dark line across the road. It warmed up a little as he walked, though it was still the time of year when the leaves refused to show the barest hint of themselves peeking into existence, and the trees still looked frozen, lines of thawing darkness against the sky.
When he walked in, he sat down on the couch—and a little scrap of whiteness caught his eye. He bent down, picked the paper up, and looked thoughtfully at the hospital discharge paper Cath had found.
Maybe he was wrong. He wasn’t so sure. They had had no time to speak, and Cath seemed exhausted.
He lay down on the couch, breathing out in relieved weariness, and fell straight into sleep. He was woken by the telephone ringing.
“No, I couldn’t find him. Maybe you should try later, Bon.”
“I have a kid, Edge! I have no idea what to do. I can’t just leave.”
“Bono, you’re going to need to get sleep sometime.”
“I can—“
Edge cut him off, shifting the telephone to the other ear and frowning exasperatedly. He stretched, feeling a little more rested.
“Nah, Bono, you’ll be able to see Cath after you get some sleep. Now go home and stay home for at least eight hours.”
“Edge—“
“No, I’m not your bleedin’ ma, but you are going to pass out on the floor and drop the baby. And then won’t you feel stupid?”
Bono made an irritated little noise that included some defeat.
“All right,” he said. “Mind if I crash at your place?”
“Go ahead.” Score two for me. Edge grinned.
About half an hour later, Bono was lying facedown on the couch, snoring loudly and definitely fast asleep. Edge looked at him with raised eyebrows: the man really needed a shower, but at the moment he was so bone-wearily pressed into the couch that Edge did not want to wake him.
He walked quietly to the front door, clicked it shut and sat on the front step, thinking. Paul was dead to the world asleep, so did not hear when Edge took the car and drove back to the hospital. It was mid-morning when Edge arrived, and Cath woke with a little more strength, surprised that Paul was gone.
“He’s getting some sleep,” Edge said. “Good,” Cath sighed with relief, speaking softly so Ciarán wouldn’t wake. His eyes were shut tightly closed and he had one hand clutching Cath’s collarbone. The doctors had done their basic checkup and determined him fit enough for Cath to steal him back, and they were doing pretty well together, both catching up on sleep also. Ciarán didn’t shift around too much, so she didn’t wake at odd hours, and Cath didn’t turn over or do anything loud.
Cath and Edge spoke briefly, after which he just looked at her for a long moment, unable to speak. She let her head fall back and the morning fill her eyes, and lay motionless, looking back up at him with a faint desperation in her gaze that fell away after a while.
“Edge,” she told him quietly, “he’ll work through it, won’t he?”
He nodded, swallowing. “I don’t know how.”
She smiled sadly and motioned him to come stand next to where she lay. Her fingers brushed against his shoulders lightly—he shivered with the weight of what hadn’t been said—so that he knelt at eye level. She tilted her head and looked into his eyes intently. His expression hit her hard, bittersweet hopeless accusation he didn’t know where to direct. Edge took hardship differently than Bono; it merged into his being like a little shadow, a mirror of himself that blended so completely, hammering into his heart, that it was almost unseen.
“It’ll be alright,” she told him very seriously, and let her hands rest on the sides of his head briefly before drawing them back to herself. She tilted her head, smiling, looking at Ciarán, who was huddled up against her, his tiny little wisp of hair tickling against her chest.
“You two haven’t really met yet, have you?”
Edge inhaled, sharply buried what he had been feeling, and considered Ciarán with a profound sense of attachment. Very carefully, he placed a hand across the baby’s back, and his head, and turned him over, gathering Ciarán in his arms. Edge trembled slightly, the only remnants of the world changing. Ciarán shifted a little and butted his head faintly against Edge’s body. Edge didn’t know what to think. He set the baby back in Cath’s arms; she smiled at him—and he exited the room, turning to the anonymity of the wall, where she couldn’t see, and leaning against it, trying to calm himself down.
He wished, very briefly, he was Paul Hewson and problems like this did not exist.
