AnCatKatie
Rock n' Roll Doggie ALL ACCESS
Ciarán in this was chapter was very much inspired by my English teacher's little boy, who was climbing all over the room and jumping off stools and throwing markers. Adorably.
"Lost Highway" was very necessary. I enjoy that song. *sings* For a life of si-in, Iiii pay the cost...
Not PG13. I refuse
Well, for '86 anyhow.
***
Bono’s heart sank. He’d walked over, telephone held to his ear with his shoulder, with the intention of picking Ciarán up and moving him from the couch to bed, once he got off the phone with Edge—but something was off; the kid was too warm, and didn’t try to wriggle away.
Ciarán was feverish. There was no other explanation.
“Shit,” Bono said distracted into the phone, and heard Edge’s puzzled question.
“My kid’s sick,” he explained. Edge immediately gave him several suggestions on what to do about the fever, mostly “take him back to the doctor’s,” which wasn’t that helpful. Bono shook his head then laughed a little, realizing Edge could not see that. “That’ll wear him out, and the nurse said this might happen anyway.” He sighed. “Going to go deal with this. Maybe you guys should just come here instead of me going. I don’t want to leave him.”
“I’m sure Ali would be able to…” Edge began then fell silent. Bono had interesting reactions to the occasional sickness or accident. It was far from Edge to try and puzzle it out.
Bono shook his head again, then rolled his eyes: again, Edge was not with him, and body language said nothing over the phone. “Ali’s been dealing with enough. I’ll call back if it’s a bad idea to come over.” He moved to the phone receiver and was prepared to hang up, halfway through saying “bye, Edge,” though Edge began, “Maybe we shouldn’t…”
Bono rubbed at his eyes, which Edge couldn’t see, though Edge could hear the note in his voice when he told him, “I need to get it out of my mind. The music, I mean,” and Edge pondered what Bono meant after the line went flat.
It was midafternoon, though the sky had wavered into a sort of sunset all day, a reddish clear haze Bono was too busy to look at. It drifted in and sucked the energy from him, seeping into the floorboards warm against his feet as he walked over and hoisted Ciarán up into his arms. The little boy winced, squinting.
“Let’s figure out what to do about your fever, m’boy.” He walked into the kitchen: Ali was having lunch late; she smiled at him with well-rested contentment, and then looked concerned when she saw Ciarán’s expression.
“What’s going on?”
“He’s got a fever, I think,” Bono said quietly. She pushed away her plate and took the boy from him, frowned at his unhappy little moan from movement, then handed him back and started pulling things out of the cabinets.
“Ali?” Bono asked the back of her head. “Aha!” she cried, reaching up on her tiptoes and nearly knocking everything off a shelf before she found what she was looking for. She held it out and with the other hand put everything else back. “Thermometer.”
It turned out the fever was rather low, but Ciarán’s eyes were hazy and he winced again when he looked into bright light, burying his head into Bono or Ali, and looked ill when either set him down and he stood.
It didn’t ease up after two hours.
“All right then, baby,” Ali said purposefully to Ciarán after she and Bono thought and worried, “we’re going to try to bring your temperature down.” She turned her head and told Bono to get some ice. He got a couple glasses full. They set a very confused Ciarán into the bathtub and drew cold water, Bono looking back from the water to the ice and wondering how cold it would have to be to bring him back to normal. Ciarán’s body reddened a little against the cold, then got very pale, and his eyes focused again. He gave a little cough and sat up, shivering, and said “It’s cold” to Bono, who laughed shakily and pulled the boy out, wrapping a towel around him. Ciarán spat some water into his face, mischievousness relieving. Bono was soaked, Ali was tired, and Ciarán stood for about one minute patiently while Ali tried to get clothes on him and ended up running around with a shirt half-on out of their sight. Between the refrigerator and the dishwasher, under the kitchen cabinets, was apparently an excellent hiding place, though his wet footsteps gave him away and Bono finally found him and dragged him out, rolling his eyes.
He gave an amused laugh, to which Ali asked, “What?”
“He’ll be in Edge and Larry and Ad’s hair too when they come over.” He sighed in satisfaction. She swatted him. “I think you mean you’re happy he’s better.” He inclined his head briefly, then laughed again. She sighed and shook her head.
“Thanks, Ali,” he told her softly, and kissed her, smiling. Something about the way his heart had been speeding all afternoon, as far as she could tell, and the seriousness behind his eyes even in happiness…there was still something on his mind. For now, though, he was all hers. He blinked hard for a long moment and swallowed, then breathed out. From this close, forehead pressed against forehead, his face did look tight with some pressing thought. His breath hitched a little, and he pressed his face to her shoulder, hiding the confusing tears again. His lips whispered against her skin, speaking enough and too little for him, though words raced through his mind as they both raced through space and light and endlessness, little glimpses of each other giving way to a great expanse like the desert sky, vast and sweeping and unknowable, somewhere within his body and mind after he lay spent next to his wife: in a corner of his mind, in his tightened muscles and his lengthened breathing, that place was also the confusion center stage in his thoughts, where he stood against the sky and could see no shadow of what he was supposed to follow.
It had been a miracle Ciarán decided to play hide and seek again for so long and then busied himself by himself, in that space of time. The doorbell roused them from a deep connecting wordlessness. There was that usual difficult-to-place similarity between them as they greeted the rest of the band; Edge came first, and looked from Bono to Ali, raising his eyebrows, and pulled the protesting Ciarán from his new hiding place, apologizing when it scattered laundry everywhere. Larry came a couple minutes afterwards and Ciarán ran headfirst into the drummer, yelling “LARRY! Edge won’t play hide an’ seek!” or something along the lines of that. Bono gave an evil smile at the feigned look of long suffering on the drummer’s face.
“Edge,” Larry began in an irritated voice, then laughed, pulling the boy away from him—with difficulty; he was pounding on Larry’s back and exclaiming he could drum. “Can you now?” He changed topics and whispered something conspiratorially. Ciarán nodded emphatically and walked over to Edge.
“Uh-oh,” Edge said. “Whatever was his idea, no. I am working on music, distractions or no distractions.” Ciarán sat beside him, looked back at Larry, who shrugged apologetically and sighed in relief, whispering to Bono “It worked!” Ali gave a disapproving look to him, then laughed and leaned against her man.
Eve came last, a little late. “She’s going to be visiting friends a little ways away in a couple days,” Larry explained, “said there was someone she wanted to see…right now she’s figuring out the arrangements. I never thought travel was so complicated,” he grinned.
“Well, without hotels,” Bono pointed out. “It usually is, anyways.” Larry nodded and drew the aforementioned woman into a long embrace. Some unexplained energy crackled between them, perhaps with their silence, perhaps the sudden stillness in the house. Bono tilted his head, finally catching sight of her.
The words dropped through his mind like stones into water.
Deep in the heart,
deep in the heart of this place…
Something about the dreams he had had…for a moment he did not see Eve before him, smiling that quiet smile she had, self-consciously rubbing the ring on her finger; other eyes caught at his and instantaneous as smoke, he saw someone different, from a dream he had not yet had—staring forward completely still, the haze of some warm place behind her, green eyes, something odd about her hair. And that riveting desperation of the need to tell him something—as if she stood in traffic, shouting at him to stop and wait—
He shook his head. He must have been tired. Eve looked puzzled, and he could not regain that elusive dream-image her appearance had sparked in his mind.
His confused attempt at understanding was broken off by Edge, who was playing acoustic and singing to Ciarán, who tried very hard not to laugh and sat still, looking up in awe.
"Just a deck of cards and a jug of wine
And a woman's lies makes a life like mine..."
Edge looked back at Bono and gave him a look of great amusement, perhaps wondering what had stopped the other man in his tracks: Bono had a strange look on his face. It was there for only an instant, like sun touching upon the ground, before he went outside and raised his voice with Edge’s.
“Oh, the day we me-et, I we-ent astra-ay
I started rolling down
that lost highway…”
But his thoughts wandered to that brief confusing glimpse, and a little later, when they worked seriously on music, he realized he was singing that other song softly, and Edge guided bits and pieces out of it when he came back to earth. The music, everything, wound up and around the sky and the comforting pressure of Ali leaning against him, the flicker of the sun as it sank beneath the sky, and the sparks of confusion at the back of Bono’s mind. When had he first seen Eve? It had been a while ago, and something about Larry being in a relationship in secret, and himself and Ali…something good, something bad…walking down a street looking for someone, heart pounding…he shook his head, and exhaled. It was hours later soon enough, near the dead of night. The air had a weight and a lightness about it. He thanked Edge and the rest, Adam for not distracting everyone, Larry for tolerating Ciarán, and stayed in the doorway for a moment, staring at Eve again confusedly and wishing he could be around them all continuously and figure out what was going on…
"Lost Highway" was very necessary. I enjoy that song. *sings* For a life of si-in, Iiii pay the cost...
Not PG13. I refuse
Well, for '86 anyhow.***
1986
Bono’s heart sank. He’d walked over, telephone held to his ear with his shoulder, with the intention of picking Ciarán up and moving him from the couch to bed, once he got off the phone with Edge—but something was off; the kid was too warm, and didn’t try to wriggle away.
Ciarán was feverish. There was no other explanation.
“Shit,” Bono said distracted into the phone, and heard Edge’s puzzled question.
“My kid’s sick,” he explained. Edge immediately gave him several suggestions on what to do about the fever, mostly “take him back to the doctor’s,” which wasn’t that helpful. Bono shook his head then laughed a little, realizing Edge could not see that. “That’ll wear him out, and the nurse said this might happen anyway.” He sighed. “Going to go deal with this. Maybe you guys should just come here instead of me going. I don’t want to leave him.”
“I’m sure Ali would be able to…” Edge began then fell silent. Bono had interesting reactions to the occasional sickness or accident. It was far from Edge to try and puzzle it out.
Bono shook his head again, then rolled his eyes: again, Edge was not with him, and body language said nothing over the phone. “Ali’s been dealing with enough. I’ll call back if it’s a bad idea to come over.” He moved to the phone receiver and was prepared to hang up, halfway through saying “bye, Edge,” though Edge began, “Maybe we shouldn’t…”
Bono rubbed at his eyes, which Edge couldn’t see, though Edge could hear the note in his voice when he told him, “I need to get it out of my mind. The music, I mean,” and Edge pondered what Bono meant after the line went flat.
It was midafternoon, though the sky had wavered into a sort of sunset all day, a reddish clear haze Bono was too busy to look at. It drifted in and sucked the energy from him, seeping into the floorboards warm against his feet as he walked over and hoisted Ciarán up into his arms. The little boy winced, squinting.
“Let’s figure out what to do about your fever, m’boy.” He walked into the kitchen: Ali was having lunch late; she smiled at him with well-rested contentment, and then looked concerned when she saw Ciarán’s expression.
“What’s going on?”
“He’s got a fever, I think,” Bono said quietly. She pushed away her plate and took the boy from him, frowned at his unhappy little moan from movement, then handed him back and started pulling things out of the cabinets.
“Ali?” Bono asked the back of her head. “Aha!” she cried, reaching up on her tiptoes and nearly knocking everything off a shelf before she found what she was looking for. She held it out and with the other hand put everything else back. “Thermometer.”
It turned out the fever was rather low, but Ciarán’s eyes were hazy and he winced again when he looked into bright light, burying his head into Bono or Ali, and looked ill when either set him down and he stood.
It didn’t ease up after two hours.
“All right then, baby,” Ali said purposefully to Ciarán after she and Bono thought and worried, “we’re going to try to bring your temperature down.” She turned her head and told Bono to get some ice. He got a couple glasses full. They set a very confused Ciarán into the bathtub and drew cold water, Bono looking back from the water to the ice and wondering how cold it would have to be to bring him back to normal. Ciarán’s body reddened a little against the cold, then got very pale, and his eyes focused again. He gave a little cough and sat up, shivering, and said “It’s cold” to Bono, who laughed shakily and pulled the boy out, wrapping a towel around him. Ciarán spat some water into his face, mischievousness relieving. Bono was soaked, Ali was tired, and Ciarán stood for about one minute patiently while Ali tried to get clothes on him and ended up running around with a shirt half-on out of their sight. Between the refrigerator and the dishwasher, under the kitchen cabinets, was apparently an excellent hiding place, though his wet footsteps gave him away and Bono finally found him and dragged him out, rolling his eyes.
He gave an amused laugh, to which Ali asked, “What?”
“He’ll be in Edge and Larry and Ad’s hair too when they come over.” He sighed in satisfaction. She swatted him. “I think you mean you’re happy he’s better.” He inclined his head briefly, then laughed again. She sighed and shook her head.
“Thanks, Ali,” he told her softly, and kissed her, smiling. Something about the way his heart had been speeding all afternoon, as far as she could tell, and the seriousness behind his eyes even in happiness…there was still something on his mind. For now, though, he was all hers. He blinked hard for a long moment and swallowed, then breathed out. From this close, forehead pressed against forehead, his face did look tight with some pressing thought. His breath hitched a little, and he pressed his face to her shoulder, hiding the confusing tears again. His lips whispered against her skin, speaking enough and too little for him, though words raced through his mind as they both raced through space and light and endlessness, little glimpses of each other giving way to a great expanse like the desert sky, vast and sweeping and unknowable, somewhere within his body and mind after he lay spent next to his wife: in a corner of his mind, in his tightened muscles and his lengthened breathing, that place was also the confusion center stage in his thoughts, where he stood against the sky and could see no shadow of what he was supposed to follow.
It had been a miracle Ciarán decided to play hide and seek again for so long and then busied himself by himself, in that space of time. The doorbell roused them from a deep connecting wordlessness. There was that usual difficult-to-place similarity between them as they greeted the rest of the band; Edge came first, and looked from Bono to Ali, raising his eyebrows, and pulled the protesting Ciarán from his new hiding place, apologizing when it scattered laundry everywhere. Larry came a couple minutes afterwards and Ciarán ran headfirst into the drummer, yelling “LARRY! Edge won’t play hide an’ seek!” or something along the lines of that. Bono gave an evil smile at the feigned look of long suffering on the drummer’s face.
“Edge,” Larry began in an irritated voice, then laughed, pulling the boy away from him—with difficulty; he was pounding on Larry’s back and exclaiming he could drum. “Can you now?” He changed topics and whispered something conspiratorially. Ciarán nodded emphatically and walked over to Edge.
“Uh-oh,” Edge said. “Whatever was his idea, no. I am working on music, distractions or no distractions.” Ciarán sat beside him, looked back at Larry, who shrugged apologetically and sighed in relief, whispering to Bono “It worked!” Ali gave a disapproving look to him, then laughed and leaned against her man.
Eve came last, a little late. “She’s going to be visiting friends a little ways away in a couple days,” Larry explained, “said there was someone she wanted to see…right now she’s figuring out the arrangements. I never thought travel was so complicated,” he grinned.
“Well, without hotels,” Bono pointed out. “It usually is, anyways.” Larry nodded and drew the aforementioned woman into a long embrace. Some unexplained energy crackled between them, perhaps with their silence, perhaps the sudden stillness in the house. Bono tilted his head, finally catching sight of her.
The words dropped through his mind like stones into water.
Deep in the heart,
deep in the heart of this place…
Something about the dreams he had had…for a moment he did not see Eve before him, smiling that quiet smile she had, self-consciously rubbing the ring on her finger; other eyes caught at his and instantaneous as smoke, he saw someone different, from a dream he had not yet had—staring forward completely still, the haze of some warm place behind her, green eyes, something odd about her hair. And that riveting desperation of the need to tell him something—as if she stood in traffic, shouting at him to stop and wait—
He shook his head. He must have been tired. Eve looked puzzled, and he could not regain that elusive dream-image her appearance had sparked in his mind.
His confused attempt at understanding was broken off by Edge, who was playing acoustic and singing to Ciarán, who tried very hard not to laugh and sat still, looking up in awe.
"Just a deck of cards and a jug of wine
And a woman's lies makes a life like mine..."
Edge looked back at Bono and gave him a look of great amusement, perhaps wondering what had stopped the other man in his tracks: Bono had a strange look on his face. It was there for only an instant, like sun touching upon the ground, before he went outside and raised his voice with Edge’s.
“Oh, the day we me-et, I we-ent astra-ay
I started rolling down
that lost highway…”
But his thoughts wandered to that brief confusing glimpse, and a little later, when they worked seriously on music, he realized he was singing that other song softly, and Edge guided bits and pieces out of it when he came back to earth. The music, everything, wound up and around the sky and the comforting pressure of Ali leaning against him, the flicker of the sun as it sank beneath the sky, and the sparks of confusion at the back of Bono’s mind. When had he first seen Eve? It had been a while ago, and something about Larry being in a relationship in secret, and himself and Ali…something good, something bad…walking down a street looking for someone, heart pounding…he shook his head, and exhaled. It was hours later soon enough, near the dead of night. The air had a weight and a lightness about it. He thanked Edge and the rest, Adam for not distracting everyone, Larry for tolerating Ciarán, and stayed in the doorway for a moment, staring at Eve again confusedly and wishing he could be around them all continuously and figure out what was going on…
Good idea, haha. It will make sense eventually, I promise. Actually, there are already a bunch of hints about '78 in the '78 bits...they're just made obscure so guessing isn't too easy 
