AnCatKatie
Rock n' Roll Doggie ALL ACCESS
It's been awhile. I thought my fanfic days had ended. But not so.
First thing. This is a U2 fanfic without a U2 song title. Oh my god, apocalypse.
Second thing. There's a story before it called Out Of Control that might be a good idea to read first. I don't like having to explain too much but you could try reading it from here instead. It just might not make complete sense. I am, though, explaining the obvious stuff like Ciarán's related to Bono, etc.
And third thing. Nothing too weird happens in this one. Sorry for all that trippy mind reading before. Mostly not...reeeeeeeally happening in this one. So no, he's not possessed, either. It's normal, and not a good thing goin' on.
***
Back in the dark twisting recesses of the past, there was memory. So long ago that to Ciarán, it was all hazy, as if he searched through smoke. He remembered a heartbeat a long time ago that was hard to place. Somehow, now, this seemed important, though the reasons why kept slipping past his mind.
Quicksilver darts of insight tried to worm their way in and take him somewhere else. It was all frighteningly fast, what he was trying to shut out of his mind.
Two hours before, Ciarán walked into the soundcheck, rubbing a hand against his forehead, freckles showing thinly on both surfaces of skin. It was strange coming back here, the place he never thought he’d be again. It was smaller than he remembered. Dark rows of seats ascending through the stadium glittered in the afternoon sun. All around him was the hollow echo of a soundcheck with few peoples’ voices to thread through it.
Maybe it was nervousness that was making his palms sweat and his head tighten. There was a gap of years between when he had last seen these four men. He’d kept his distance as best he could. They probably didn’t even know he was here. Last time, the drums had shimmered in a sharp sound that was everywhere and every kind of drumming it should or shouldn’t be, coming from across the ocean and thus the epitome of cool to Americans. 1991. He’d been a kid, biting his lip and glaring at his da up there on stage while the drumbeat started and glittered around the empty space, filling his skin with motion.
Now they sounded different, and because of that—just that—the gap was real. His mouth slanted slightly defiantly but deeper still, his heart pounded. Began to race. What was he doing here? They’d recognize him and ask questions and all he wanted for the moment was music, music and the comfort of memory. At least he was towards the back of the stadium. Ciarán closed his eyes in relief at that. It was a soundcheck, but he had his pass out from a while ago, he’d not be noticed.
He realized how bright the sun was. How different, again, the drums sounded. His heart ached and squeezed suddenly.
What have I done with myself? That I’m waiting in the back like this?
He didn’t really want to face any of them right now. But he needed the music. Needed it. The drumbeat itched in him again, wound into his heart and latched into his blood. There was a familiarity there, Ciarán heard with his eyes closed and less distractions, though he knew that loud exuberant set of footsteps far away onstage. He opened his eyes again. There was something between excitement and a wince of pain he felt crossing his face. He walked forward. And then the tightness became apparent. The ache he felt was all too corporeal and constricted across him. His eyes widened, his da turned to see what this stranger was doing coming towards the stage, security muttered among themselves that they thought they’d remembered who they’d given the pass to but it was ages ago, this one was old, who was he…he looked vaguely familiar…
The pain, Ciarán tried to shut out of his mind. He realized frighteningly fast that it wasn’t just the pain of being back here again and making himself announced. He had a sickening feeling he wouldn’t make it to the stage anyway. Like a dream, everything was spinning and he saw a few minutes ago, when someone had given him a drink and he’d downed it, hands sweaty…was it that? No…it probably…wasn’t…everything spun and then bit and the unfamiliar red-haired man security vaguely recognized had fallen down, his eyes wide, a pained expression on his face.
The singer onstage turned around a little too late, hearing a commotion. He felt a faint familiar tug of worry that made altogether no sense, as he saw the fallen man. Bono Vox climbed down from the stage, letting the microphone drop forgotten. Just as one of the guys in security began to speak, saying who it was, Bono felt a shock of recognition, then sadness, anger, confusion, worry. Someone called an ambulance, and he talked quietly with security, shaken.
“No-one told me he was here?”
Someone shook their head.
“He’s going to be fine, right?”
A nod, and then a reply that he had to be onstage in an hour. There was no time to worry. A small rift made itself known to Bono, however, and clutched just behind his ribs. He saw as he continued the soundcheck, when the ambulance was gone, the instant of knowing who he was seeing before him, and then a blur of differences, of years, and felt all those emotions come back just as fast. How the fuck was he supposed to go on with the show…he’d go through it if necessary, the rest of the band needed him to, but he was heading straight to the hospital afterwards. A glass shard of worry condensed where it had only gripped slowly before, made it hard to breathe. He closed his eyes, and then thought about how this was strangely familiar.
Not the person. Not the experience. Something, though, something, anything. Last time anything had gone this wrong it had something to do with the past. Was it like this again?
Maybe he was just hoping too much. Hoping it would all be alright.
Hoping his son would be alright.
It hurt, that moment where he hadn’t even known who it was. If he’d turned around a second earlier, maybe Ciarán wouldn’t be in an ambulance.
He tried his best to push those thoughts away for the moment. They ran through the back of his mind like the light running over the cord of the fallen microphone, the shadows running from the stage long and liquid out to the street, the pavement beneath the angry urgent rush of red cacophony that was the ambulance.
Ciarán, in pain, saw everything blurring a little into darkness. It was safe there, for the moment, so he could forget that unexpected halting, difference, then pain, in his body. It could be the drugs the blurred hazy people around him were trying to pump into his body. It could be the sudden shock and the jolt of the paddles.
“Clear!” someone yelled very far away.
That darkness beyond the noise was past. It was memory.
So long ago that to Ciarán, it was all hazy, as if he searched through smoke. He remembered a heartbeat a long time ago that was hard to place. Somehow, now, this seemed important, though the reasons why kept slipping past his mind. Now, in the present, his own heartbeat felt precarious.
Quicksilver darts of insight tried to worm their way in and take him somewhere else. But there he could only hear too, as if his vision were somehow compromised.
“Don’t speak of this,” he heard in a man’s voice, and had a vague impression of some other fear that wasn’t the recent anxiousness of seeing his father again. This was years-ago fear, so-long-ago fear.
“Don’t speak of this. Ever.” The voice in the past repeated. Through the haze he knew that in the ambulance and out and away from the memory, his heart was beating now, fast, out of control. Something about that voice. Something about that darkness. He began to get distracted as he emerged back into light and sound and color.
“No!” he told the people in the ambulance as he blinked back into feeling and sight, still caught up in the haze of whatever he’d remembered. They all looked at him confusedly, some looking extremely worried, but he couldn’t remember now what the ‘no’ was about.
When the frantic questioning—“can you move your arms? Can you see this properly? How many fingers? Is there pain—there? What happened just before you fell?”—paused, it did all come back for a moment. The red-haired, exhausted man blinked dark eyes and answered in a desperate tone but strangely repetitive, as if he’d heard it all before, “Don’t speak of this. Ever.”
He didn’t know what the threat was or what lay behind it. He only knew it wasn’t his.
First thing. This is a U2 fanfic without a U2 song title. Oh my god, apocalypse.
Second thing. There's a story before it called Out Of Control that might be a good idea to read first. I don't like having to explain too much but you could try reading it from here instead. It just might not make complete sense. I am, though, explaining the obvious stuff like Ciarán's related to Bono, etc.
And third thing. Nothing too weird happens in this one. Sorry for all that trippy mind reading before. Mostly not...reeeeeeeally happening in this one. So no, he's not possessed, either. It's normal, and not a good thing goin' on.
***
“You've been seeing things,
In darkness, not in learning,
Hoping that the truth will pass...”
—Joy Division, “No Love Lost”
In darkness, not in learning,
Hoping that the truth will pass...”
—Joy Division, “No Love Lost”
PROLOGUE
Back in the dark twisting recesses of the past, there was memory. So long ago that to Ciarán, it was all hazy, as if he searched through smoke. He remembered a heartbeat a long time ago that was hard to place. Somehow, now, this seemed important, though the reasons why kept slipping past his mind.
Quicksilver darts of insight tried to worm their way in and take him somewhere else. It was all frighteningly fast, what he was trying to shut out of his mind.
Two hours before, Ciarán walked into the soundcheck, rubbing a hand against his forehead, freckles showing thinly on both surfaces of skin. It was strange coming back here, the place he never thought he’d be again. It was smaller than he remembered. Dark rows of seats ascending through the stadium glittered in the afternoon sun. All around him was the hollow echo of a soundcheck with few peoples’ voices to thread through it.
Maybe it was nervousness that was making his palms sweat and his head tighten. There was a gap of years between when he had last seen these four men. He’d kept his distance as best he could. They probably didn’t even know he was here. Last time, the drums had shimmered in a sharp sound that was everywhere and every kind of drumming it should or shouldn’t be, coming from across the ocean and thus the epitome of cool to Americans. 1991. He’d been a kid, biting his lip and glaring at his da up there on stage while the drumbeat started and glittered around the empty space, filling his skin with motion.
Now they sounded different, and because of that—just that—the gap was real. His mouth slanted slightly defiantly but deeper still, his heart pounded. Began to race. What was he doing here? They’d recognize him and ask questions and all he wanted for the moment was music, music and the comfort of memory. At least he was towards the back of the stadium. Ciarán closed his eyes in relief at that. It was a soundcheck, but he had his pass out from a while ago, he’d not be noticed.
He realized how bright the sun was. How different, again, the drums sounded. His heart ached and squeezed suddenly.
What have I done with myself? That I’m waiting in the back like this?
He didn’t really want to face any of them right now. But he needed the music. Needed it. The drumbeat itched in him again, wound into his heart and latched into his blood. There was a familiarity there, Ciarán heard with his eyes closed and less distractions, though he knew that loud exuberant set of footsteps far away onstage. He opened his eyes again. There was something between excitement and a wince of pain he felt crossing his face. He walked forward. And then the tightness became apparent. The ache he felt was all too corporeal and constricted across him. His eyes widened, his da turned to see what this stranger was doing coming towards the stage, security muttered among themselves that they thought they’d remembered who they’d given the pass to but it was ages ago, this one was old, who was he…he looked vaguely familiar…
The pain, Ciarán tried to shut out of his mind. He realized frighteningly fast that it wasn’t just the pain of being back here again and making himself announced. He had a sickening feeling he wouldn’t make it to the stage anyway. Like a dream, everything was spinning and he saw a few minutes ago, when someone had given him a drink and he’d downed it, hands sweaty…was it that? No…it probably…wasn’t…everything spun and then bit and the unfamiliar red-haired man security vaguely recognized had fallen down, his eyes wide, a pained expression on his face.
The singer onstage turned around a little too late, hearing a commotion. He felt a faint familiar tug of worry that made altogether no sense, as he saw the fallen man. Bono Vox climbed down from the stage, letting the microphone drop forgotten. Just as one of the guys in security began to speak, saying who it was, Bono felt a shock of recognition, then sadness, anger, confusion, worry. Someone called an ambulance, and he talked quietly with security, shaken.
“No-one told me he was here?”
Someone shook their head.
“He’s going to be fine, right?”
A nod, and then a reply that he had to be onstage in an hour. There was no time to worry. A small rift made itself known to Bono, however, and clutched just behind his ribs. He saw as he continued the soundcheck, when the ambulance was gone, the instant of knowing who he was seeing before him, and then a blur of differences, of years, and felt all those emotions come back just as fast. How the fuck was he supposed to go on with the show…he’d go through it if necessary, the rest of the band needed him to, but he was heading straight to the hospital afterwards. A glass shard of worry condensed where it had only gripped slowly before, made it hard to breathe. He closed his eyes, and then thought about how this was strangely familiar.
Not the person. Not the experience. Something, though, something, anything. Last time anything had gone this wrong it had something to do with the past. Was it like this again?
Maybe he was just hoping too much. Hoping it would all be alright.
Hoping his son would be alright.
It hurt, that moment where he hadn’t even known who it was. If he’d turned around a second earlier, maybe Ciarán wouldn’t be in an ambulance.
He tried his best to push those thoughts away for the moment. They ran through the back of his mind like the light running over the cord of the fallen microphone, the shadows running from the stage long and liquid out to the street, the pavement beneath the angry urgent rush of red cacophony that was the ambulance.
Ciarán, in pain, saw everything blurring a little into darkness. It was safe there, for the moment, so he could forget that unexpected halting, difference, then pain, in his body. It could be the drugs the blurred hazy people around him were trying to pump into his body. It could be the sudden shock and the jolt of the paddles.
“Clear!” someone yelled very far away.
That darkness beyond the noise was past. It was memory.
So long ago that to Ciarán, it was all hazy, as if he searched through smoke. He remembered a heartbeat a long time ago that was hard to place. Somehow, now, this seemed important, though the reasons why kept slipping past his mind. Now, in the present, his own heartbeat felt precarious.
Quicksilver darts of insight tried to worm their way in and take him somewhere else. But there he could only hear too, as if his vision were somehow compromised.
“Don’t speak of this,” he heard in a man’s voice, and had a vague impression of some other fear that wasn’t the recent anxiousness of seeing his father again. This was years-ago fear, so-long-ago fear.
“Don’t speak of this. Ever.” The voice in the past repeated. Through the haze he knew that in the ambulance and out and away from the memory, his heart was beating now, fast, out of control. Something about that voice. Something about that darkness. He began to get distracted as he emerged back into light and sound and color.
“No!” he told the people in the ambulance as he blinked back into feeling and sight, still caught up in the haze of whatever he’d remembered. They all looked at him confusedly, some looking extremely worried, but he couldn’t remember now what the ‘no’ was about.
When the frantic questioning—“can you move your arms? Can you see this properly? How many fingers? Is there pain—there? What happened just before you fell?”—paused, it did all come back for a moment. The red-haired, exhausted man blinked dark eyes and answered in a desperate tone but strangely repetitive, as if he’d heard it all before, “Don’t speak of this. Ever.”
He didn’t know what the threat was or what lay behind it. He only knew it wasn’t his.
at your reaction, Blue! It's been a while.
