AnCatKatie
Rock n' Roll Doggie ALL ACCESS
I'm stalling from longer chapters. Anyway, Blue is (probably) right. Muahaha.
No worries, everything's got an explanation
and actually...there were several permutations of this plot and the other plots, and this one makes a hell of a lot more sense. And Isaac is definitely still dead. I am not going to mess with that, hell no.
Unfortunately the start of this has to do with a couple scenes with him that I forgot to put in ACD. Fuck. Well. I'll figure it out. Speaking of which, please do not read this if you haven't read the 2 previous stories. It's so spoilery.
End of the chapter's a big hint.
***
Back to the cold restless streets at night
Talk to myself about tomorrow night
Walls of white protest
A gravestone in name
Who is it now? It’s always the same
Who is it now? That calls me inside?
Are the leaves on the trees just a living disguise?
I walk the street rain tragicomedy
I’ll walk home again to the street melody.
No worries, everything's got an explanation
and actually...there were several permutations of this plot and the other plots, and this one makes a hell of a lot more sense. And Isaac is definitely still dead. I am not going to mess with that, hell no.Unfortunately the start of this has to do with a couple scenes with him that I forgot to put in ACD. Fuck. Well. I'll figure it out. Speaking of which, please do not read this if you haven't read the 2 previous stories. It's so spoilery.
End of the chapter's a big hint.
***
Chapter Eleven. Untitled.
Back to the cold restless streets at night
Talk to myself about tomorrow night
Walls of white protest
A gravestone in name
Who is it now? It’s always the same
Who is it now? That calls me inside?
Are the leaves on the trees just a living disguise?
I walk the street rain tragicomedy
I’ll walk home again to the street melody.
America was an ocean away from Ireland. A very far, very long expanse of water. It wasn’t crossable by swimming, it was only crossable by money. Money she did not have. Appearances, she knew, could change. She remembered clearly as she saw the boy in front of her someone else a very far, very long expanse of time ago. Another dark-haired boy about her age just before her, trying to take it all in in disbelief. She’d gone against the order that should be saving her: keeping it secret (because if she said nothing they’d all be safe). What exactly Isaac had been doing.
“Edge,” she’d said, “there’s something I need you to do.” He’d been so near. About as close as she was to a relative stranger now in 1998, and as close as she’d been to a relative stranger much smaller back then a few weeks later, looking up at her with confused baby eyes. Oisín next to her had tried to hide how angry he was that it was her and not their mam. She was taking the place of someone else.
Indeed, she hadn’t spoken of—it, ever, to anyone but Edge. She could see now that something was eating away at Ciarán slowly and hoped it was not the same thing. That couldn’t be possible, could it? Isaac had never suspected.
But there was very little she could do.
***
1999.
(in the emergency room)
Bono rushed there as soon as he could. The stagelights had burned a fierce worry into him. He’d fought the words and the music and the audience, the stadium charged with the energy of his fear, and he’d fought traffic to get here. Fuck traffic. He was running through the hospital trying to find what room it was. Finally, finally, he found out which new (critical) patient, twenty years old, was his son and recognized him instantly. Clung to his hand like a lifeline. He was burning up. The nurses witnessed Bono lose his grip like he hadn’t before. There was something about fevers now he didn’t like. Through his son’s hand he gripped the blood (way too warm) was his and hers, his and hers, and something was wrong, and through Bono could feel a jump, a leap, a staccato stutter of rhythm that jumped and jolted again before all of the sudden hiccupping. He was knocked away by someone stronger than him with medical equipment. Couldn’t register “clear!” “More charge!” For a minute there was a flatline.
Edge nearby held him away in a white-knuckled grip, and just as fast let him go. “Shit,” Edge whispered.
After a minute the flatline stopped and Ciarán’s mouth opened to let in a breath. The hairs rose on Bono’s arms. He’d had history fuck with him before like this and thank god this time it wasn’t death.
For some reason, though Bono didn't notice, Edge wouldn't meet his eyes.
“Edge,” she’d said, “there’s something I need you to do.” He’d been so near. About as close as she was to a relative stranger now in 1998, and as close as she’d been to a relative stranger much smaller back then a few weeks later, looking up at her with confused baby eyes. Oisín next to her had tried to hide how angry he was that it was her and not their mam. She was taking the place of someone else.
Indeed, she hadn’t spoken of—it, ever, to anyone but Edge. She could see now that something was eating away at Ciarán slowly and hoped it was not the same thing. That couldn’t be possible, could it? Isaac had never suspected.
But there was very little she could do.
***
1999.
(in the emergency room)
"Surprise, sometimes, will come around
Surprise, sometimes, will come around
I will surprise you sometime.
I'll come around
Oh, I will surprise you sometime.
I'll come around when you're down..."
—Interpol, "Untitled"
Surprise, sometimes, will come around
I will surprise you sometime.
I'll come around
Oh, I will surprise you sometime.
I'll come around when you're down..."
—Interpol, "Untitled"
Bono rushed there as soon as he could. The stagelights had burned a fierce worry into him. He’d fought the words and the music and the audience, the stadium charged with the energy of his fear, and he’d fought traffic to get here. Fuck traffic. He was running through the hospital trying to find what room it was. Finally, finally, he found out which new (critical) patient, twenty years old, was his son and recognized him instantly. Clung to his hand like a lifeline. He was burning up. The nurses witnessed Bono lose his grip like he hadn’t before. There was something about fevers now he didn’t like. Through his son’s hand he gripped the blood (way too warm) was his and hers, his and hers, and something was wrong, and through Bono could feel a jump, a leap, a staccato stutter of rhythm that jumped and jolted again before all of the sudden hiccupping. He was knocked away by someone stronger than him with medical equipment. Couldn’t register “clear!” “More charge!” For a minute there was a flatline.
Edge nearby held him away in a white-knuckled grip, and just as fast let him go. “Shit,” Edge whispered.
After a minute the flatline stopped and Ciarán’s mouth opened to let in a breath. The hairs rose on Bono’s arms. He’d had history fuck with him before like this and thank god this time it wasn’t death.
For some reason, though Bono didn't notice, Edge wouldn't meet his eyes.
*could've read it last night*
<-- laughing cause this is so messed up and I'm working frantically trying to decipher the meaning of this chapter...
