AnCatKatie
Rock n' Roll Doggie ALL ACCESS
Not mine, nothing but the envelope and not the contents. And the bad cooking Bono does is similar to mine. I don't do most breakfast food...things can go terribly wrong...
The babysitting begins
Poor Edge. Just think, Bono might have to do this for even longer.
***
Cath was concerned. There was obviously something on Bono’s mind, evident by the way he looked at her deeply, intensely, then looked back as if afraid she would disappear. Whatever it was she didn’t ask about, having unconsciously put barriers up around the Isaac incident, and rather, it made them cling tighter to each other. It was difficult for Bono to leave in the mornings. One morning, heart pounding, awoke on his own, loathe to set an alarm because Cath was getting dark circles under her eyes. The darkness around him became darkness and light as his eyes adjusted, the light slightly warmer than the chill frozen fingers of January sun; it was nearly February now. Eight months. She drew energy into herself, giving off warmth and heat as she fueled two lives at once. He felt his sense of gravity slipping at times, when he was with Cath: somehow, as one person, he was rendered meaningless in comparison.
You shouldn’t be worrying, he tried to tell himself as he slowly woke up. Nothing’s happened. It’s been nearly a month and nothing has gone wrong.
He shivered under the heavy covers and slid out of bed, pausing before he did so for a moment, leaning reflectively on the heels of his hands and looking at the sleeping Cath. Her hair spread over the pillow, her hands crossed loosely above her belly, and she frowned in a sort of concentration from whatever dream alighted upon her mind. She nearly blended into the darkness of morning; she had become a permanent fixture in his life, another soul or a second skin, and unfathomable. It would be very, very wrong for her to be suddenly gone.
You’ve grown too attached, the wide-eyed Paul Hewson had told himself that day he and Cath had truly met, mind and body and lyrics. He had known, even then. You’re going to see her again sometime and it will all go down from there; you’re filling that space punched open by your mother’s death.
It wasn’t true, but—another space, rough and raw-edged, would be created, greater than the one before, if she was gone.
And he had fallen, fallen fast and hard, unable to keep the substance of his mind and body away from the little eddies and currents of her own; her own past, the shadows he had the power to banish, the sudden edged light that came into her eyes when she was happy, were that magnetic, that much like himself. He needed her, on some basic level; they completed each other. To her, he was Paul, asked no questions of, accepted, and they both bared the most vulnerable aspects of their being to themselves since they laid eyes on each other—Cath, slamming the door of her house in Isaac’s face, turning back with a wide-eyed gaze that knew too much of the world as she wrapped skinny fingers around a piece of broken glass, about to break free from the man she hated—and Paul, stripped down to his bare essence in her eyes, weighed, understood instantly, shivering slightly because at that moment she saw past every barrier he had around himself.
The dark circles were still there, faint under her closed eyes, and she was still pale as she had been after she had been to the hospital. He had the sudden overwhelming urge to call in sick at the school, grab onto his love tight and not let go. But—she needed sleep. And he needed to get through this extra year of fecking school.
There was nothing to fear: nothing would happen today. She was still his Cath, not uprooted against her will.
The internal alarm began to ring: it was time for him to begin to get ready to go. He didn’t pay attention to what he ate for breakfast, probably grabbed some leftovers off the table, shoved his head through a coat, left his gloves for Cath, and stepped outside, the thawing chill air slapping him in the face. He smiled inadvertently, feeling light: in his mind echoed a simple sort of percussion, the oceanic, mesmerizing sound of Cath’s sleep-slowed heartbeat and another smaller one skipping faster than hers. He had taken a while to drift off to sleep the night before, his head pillowed against Cath’s stomach, until finally he closed his eyes and that became the backdrop and reassurance to his sleeping thoughts.
Cath was similarly reluctant to awake. She had dreamt something about her mother, a strange black-and-white dream from a child’s perspective: Cath had dreamed she walked into the waves and someone kept pulling her back. Turning, she’d seen her mother’s hand pulling her wrist, but when she looked back properly it wasn’t her mother but a little boy, who was soon lost in the swell of the ocean.
Somehow, the part of the dream that wasn’t frustrating was in some way reassuring: she had made a quiet peace with the strange workings of her body. She had, of recent, looked down and seen herself as planetary, Paul her satellite moon, and grew abruptly distressed at how disproportionate her flesh had become. But it was temporary, and also oddly satisfying when Paul had thought her asleep, thrown his arms around her stomach and pressed his ear against its curve, and to feel the little reactions separate to herself when the baby kicked or moved. That unexpectedness was exciting.
The remnants of water-washed dreams slid away from her opening eyes and she sighed happily, stretching: it had grown a couple degrees warmer. Just about February. That’s…what…eight months gone? It did certainly feel like that.
But whatever greater profound attachment had deepened between her and Paul for the last few weeks was underscored by their reluctance to be apart: she frowned slightly, looking at the rumpled hollow of the covers where he had been before he left.
She resolved to ask him why he was still in school. It really was odd.
She was not prepared at all for the knock on her door, and threw on pants and one of Bono’s shirts, racing down the stairs to peek roundabout through the window—she was apprehensive of visitors for some reason—then, laughing, swung the door open.
“God, Edge, it’s early in the morning!” He seemed to agree; his hair still stuck up, as it was wont to do, from sleep and he had a very sleep-deprived look about his face, also looking like he had dressed himself in that sort of hurry given by a yearning for rest.
Edge blinked, his heart tearing. He had had misgivings about trusting himself over here ever since Bono had banged on his window and vaulted inside, practically dragging Edge out of bed and out of the house and pleading for him to make sure Cath was safe while he was gone. First, he had restrained himself from killing the irritating kid, then realized like a punch to the stomach that Cath knew he loved her, even if it was something confessed in a hospital…
And he was abruptly selfishly ecstatic and distraught for her sake to see her, the overwhelming combination resulting in silence. Cath had thrown something on, practically lost in one of Bono’s shirts, and still was very obviously pregnant, with a general glow of good health and a sort of elusive magnetism. Which meant he couldn’t make himself leave.
Edge nodded. “Mind if I come in?”
Cath gave an enthusiastic, “no, of course not! I was going to have breakfast anyway,” and Edge submitted to the rumbling of his stomach and his incredible urge to at least be in the same room as this woman.
He sat down, eyes intense, looking very funny with his hair sticking up and the expression on his face, then stood, realizing Cath should probably sit down, and insisted he’d make breakfast. Cath gave him a little apprehensive look. “Are you sure you want to cook?” She’d almost forgotten he wasn’t Bono, who was still…well…improving.
Edge laughed outright. “Used to his cooking? Don’t worry, I’m not going to burn anything.
“Nope,” he said insistently, shoving her gently down again when she tried to rise, and she made a face, yanking his hands away lightheartedly. Edge flushed and turned away abruptly, trying to keep good on his promise of not burning breakfast. He made up for his awkwardness by making easy conversation which abruptly grew amusing.
“Hey, Edge?” Cath called even though he was right there, interrupting him. He rolled his eyes then turned—without burning anything, thankfully, trying not to show that he’d much rather be looking at her than cooking.
“Yeah?”
She had a decidedly mischievous look on her face. “Why is Bono back in school?”
Edge snorted. “Oh, you’ll like this, Cath.” She gave him a questioning look, waiting. Edge stifled rising laughter, which resulted in a rather high-pitched response, and saved the eggs.
“He failed out of Gaelic last year and he has to retake it to graduate.”
Cath’s eyes sparkled wickedly. “Did he really?” She sighed. “That would explain why he looks so confused when I talk sometimes.”
“You talk to him in Gaelic?” Edge was curious, despite himself. He had the abrupt thought that her voice was probably beautiful when she spoke in that language—to him, even when it was rough-edged in pain or hoarse from singing, her voice was beautiful anyway.
“I don’t mean to,” Cath said. “It just comes out. I’m not used to speaking Béarla.” He assumed that meant English.
She gave a fond smile, musing as she continued, “It’s probably because Gaelic was what I spoke in when I felt safe. My mother rarely spoke in English, though the men of the house did.” She shook her head, muttering, “why am I being so sentimental,” the smile growing amused.
Edge couldn’t stop the laughter from escaping, and had to keep himself away from the still-being-prepared breakfast so he wouldn’t knock it over into the sink. His shoulders shook and he wiped his eyes, while Cath just looked confused.
“That’s…that’s…” he began, but speech was failing him while he was in the throes of a giggle fit. He shook his head until he regained the power of speech. “Paul…” he said weakly.
“I know,” she replied evilly. “It’s really sad. I suppose I’ll restrain myself from teasing him mercifully…”
Edge had recovered use of his limbs in a coordinated manner and brought two plates to the table. Cath sighed happily: he had obviously factored in the need for excess intake of food, and—she grabbed at one of the glasses he held and downed the orange juice inside—her intense craving for fruit. Ahh.
Edge was staring at her, the amused look replaced with a sort of awe at her powers of consumption. “Sorry,” Cath said, chuckling. “I’ve been really, really hungry lately. Paul keeps having to go for groceries…”
They both fell still, Cath with contentment, Edge still staring despite himself. Inadvertently he blocked her path as she rose to deal with her dishes, and his body brushed against hers for a moment before he muttered an apology and Cath found a way around the roadblock, not looking him in the eye. He practically shook, feeling like a tidal wave had rushed through him and then exited, not really sure of normal or sanity anymore. No—sanity was avoiding discussion of that moment; he knew anything that popped out of his mouth then would be wrong. He vigorously attacked his dishes, Cath absently wondering why his hands weren’t callused as they had been.
The faucet felt good over her hands, blasting any nonexistent dirt away. Quite quickly they finished washing the small amount of dishes. Edge turned to see Cath briefly in profile, and frowned.
“How long’s it been?” he asked, obviously referencing the baby. She smiled, brightening as she turned. “About eight months,” she said, and unexpectedly grabbed Edge’s arm. He tried to ignore the way his heart skipped a few beats before it began to race. “Come on, I can show you,” she grinned, dragging him over to the living room and firmly placing him on the couch, turning to search through various scraps of lyrics and photos and the like to come and launch herself into the space next to him, handing him a large envelope.
“Take a look at this,” Cath beamed. He opened the envelope and pulled out the ultrasound picture, despite himself feeling something rush and still within him at the sight. He hadn’t really thought of Cath’s baby except for in wide, vague areas like whether it would live or not. The pictures were obviously from maybe a couple months ago, a little blurry from motion. She pointed out various features, identifying them softly, until he dragged her hand away, intent.
“I’m pretty sure it’s a boy,” Cath said conspiratorially. “Paul has no idea. I want it to be a surprise.”
“Cath,” Edge began, lowering the glossy paper, some reflection catching in his eyes, his expression very serious. He couldn’t continue; his body language said enough.
She shook her head. “I’m trying not to worry him. The past few months, I’ve been sure everything’s fine. I have been having the occasional uncomfortable twinges for the past few days. I think it will probably wait until the right time, though; I called the doctor and they said not to worry, that that’s normal.”
There was something underneath her expression, though, caught in the same reflective light in Edge’s eyes, that gave his thoughts pause for a second before he decided he’d imagined it.
“Walking’s not fun,” Cath commented, leaning against him. “My balance is getting really, really weird with all this weight in the front. It’s a pity; I’d love to swim.” Edge shook his head in a very definite no, and Cath laughed. “I know.” She shifted, her head on his shoulder, and yawned. “Mind if I get more sleep?”
Edge murmured some sort of acceptance, and Cath gratefully closed her eyes. It was relieving to be near someone, and she practically fell straight asleep after navigating what parts of Edge’s shoulder were only slightly bony and not uncomfortable to pillow her head against. The baby’s presence was demanding; she’d lost sleep for the last week with his restlessness keeping her awake, and fought to regain it. Sleep overtook her swiftly and deeply. She was oddly glad the dream of her mother and the little boy did not return, replaced instead by a memory of the ocean, the water supporting her as she drifted out and out and at last returned.
“Thanks, Edge,” Bono murmured quietly in the afternoon when he came in to find Cath fast asleep, her face pressed against his best friend’s shoulder, the envelope clutched loosely in her hand. Edge nodded and motioned for Bono to come closer, and supported Cath’s head while Paul moved in to replace him, before reluctantly going out the door, feeling bereft.
The babysitting begins
Poor Edge. Just think, Bono might have to do this for even longer.***
Cath was concerned. There was obviously something on Bono’s mind, evident by the way he looked at her deeply, intensely, then looked back as if afraid she would disappear. Whatever it was she didn’t ask about, having unconsciously put barriers up around the Isaac incident, and rather, it made them cling tighter to each other. It was difficult for Bono to leave in the mornings. One morning, heart pounding, awoke on his own, loathe to set an alarm because Cath was getting dark circles under her eyes. The darkness around him became darkness and light as his eyes adjusted, the light slightly warmer than the chill frozen fingers of January sun; it was nearly February now. Eight months. She drew energy into herself, giving off warmth and heat as she fueled two lives at once. He felt his sense of gravity slipping at times, when he was with Cath: somehow, as one person, he was rendered meaningless in comparison.
You shouldn’t be worrying, he tried to tell himself as he slowly woke up. Nothing’s happened. It’s been nearly a month and nothing has gone wrong.
He shivered under the heavy covers and slid out of bed, pausing before he did so for a moment, leaning reflectively on the heels of his hands and looking at the sleeping Cath. Her hair spread over the pillow, her hands crossed loosely above her belly, and she frowned in a sort of concentration from whatever dream alighted upon her mind. She nearly blended into the darkness of morning; she had become a permanent fixture in his life, another soul or a second skin, and unfathomable. It would be very, very wrong for her to be suddenly gone.
You’ve grown too attached, the wide-eyed Paul Hewson had told himself that day he and Cath had truly met, mind and body and lyrics. He had known, even then. You’re going to see her again sometime and it will all go down from there; you’re filling that space punched open by your mother’s death.
It wasn’t true, but—another space, rough and raw-edged, would be created, greater than the one before, if she was gone.
And he had fallen, fallen fast and hard, unable to keep the substance of his mind and body away from the little eddies and currents of her own; her own past, the shadows he had the power to banish, the sudden edged light that came into her eyes when she was happy, were that magnetic, that much like himself. He needed her, on some basic level; they completed each other. To her, he was Paul, asked no questions of, accepted, and they both bared the most vulnerable aspects of their being to themselves since they laid eyes on each other—Cath, slamming the door of her house in Isaac’s face, turning back with a wide-eyed gaze that knew too much of the world as she wrapped skinny fingers around a piece of broken glass, about to break free from the man she hated—and Paul, stripped down to his bare essence in her eyes, weighed, understood instantly, shivering slightly because at that moment she saw past every barrier he had around himself.
The dark circles were still there, faint under her closed eyes, and she was still pale as she had been after she had been to the hospital. He had the sudden overwhelming urge to call in sick at the school, grab onto his love tight and not let go. But—she needed sleep. And he needed to get through this extra year of fecking school.
There was nothing to fear: nothing would happen today. She was still his Cath, not uprooted against her will.
The internal alarm began to ring: it was time for him to begin to get ready to go. He didn’t pay attention to what he ate for breakfast, probably grabbed some leftovers off the table, shoved his head through a coat, left his gloves for Cath, and stepped outside, the thawing chill air slapping him in the face. He smiled inadvertently, feeling light: in his mind echoed a simple sort of percussion, the oceanic, mesmerizing sound of Cath’s sleep-slowed heartbeat and another smaller one skipping faster than hers. He had taken a while to drift off to sleep the night before, his head pillowed against Cath’s stomach, until finally he closed his eyes and that became the backdrop and reassurance to his sleeping thoughts.
Cath was similarly reluctant to awake. She had dreamt something about her mother, a strange black-and-white dream from a child’s perspective: Cath had dreamed she walked into the waves and someone kept pulling her back. Turning, she’d seen her mother’s hand pulling her wrist, but when she looked back properly it wasn’t her mother but a little boy, who was soon lost in the swell of the ocean.
Somehow, the part of the dream that wasn’t frustrating was in some way reassuring: she had made a quiet peace with the strange workings of her body. She had, of recent, looked down and seen herself as planetary, Paul her satellite moon, and grew abruptly distressed at how disproportionate her flesh had become. But it was temporary, and also oddly satisfying when Paul had thought her asleep, thrown his arms around her stomach and pressed his ear against its curve, and to feel the little reactions separate to herself when the baby kicked or moved. That unexpectedness was exciting.
The remnants of water-washed dreams slid away from her opening eyes and she sighed happily, stretching: it had grown a couple degrees warmer. Just about February. That’s…what…eight months gone? It did certainly feel like that.
But whatever greater profound attachment had deepened between her and Paul for the last few weeks was underscored by their reluctance to be apart: she frowned slightly, looking at the rumpled hollow of the covers where he had been before he left.
She resolved to ask him why he was still in school. It really was odd.
She was not prepared at all for the knock on her door, and threw on pants and one of Bono’s shirts, racing down the stairs to peek roundabout through the window—she was apprehensive of visitors for some reason—then, laughing, swung the door open.
“God, Edge, it’s early in the morning!” He seemed to agree; his hair still stuck up, as it was wont to do, from sleep and he had a very sleep-deprived look about his face, also looking like he had dressed himself in that sort of hurry given by a yearning for rest.
Edge blinked, his heart tearing. He had had misgivings about trusting himself over here ever since Bono had banged on his window and vaulted inside, practically dragging Edge out of bed and out of the house and pleading for him to make sure Cath was safe while he was gone. First, he had restrained himself from killing the irritating kid, then realized like a punch to the stomach that Cath knew he loved her, even if it was something confessed in a hospital…
And he was abruptly selfishly ecstatic and distraught for her sake to see her, the overwhelming combination resulting in silence. Cath had thrown something on, practically lost in one of Bono’s shirts, and still was very obviously pregnant, with a general glow of good health and a sort of elusive magnetism. Which meant he couldn’t make himself leave.
Edge nodded. “Mind if I come in?”
Cath gave an enthusiastic, “no, of course not! I was going to have breakfast anyway,” and Edge submitted to the rumbling of his stomach and his incredible urge to at least be in the same room as this woman.
He sat down, eyes intense, looking very funny with his hair sticking up and the expression on his face, then stood, realizing Cath should probably sit down, and insisted he’d make breakfast. Cath gave him a little apprehensive look. “Are you sure you want to cook?” She’d almost forgotten he wasn’t Bono, who was still…well…improving.
Edge laughed outright. “Used to his cooking? Don’t worry, I’m not going to burn anything.
“Nope,” he said insistently, shoving her gently down again when she tried to rise, and she made a face, yanking his hands away lightheartedly. Edge flushed and turned away abruptly, trying to keep good on his promise of not burning breakfast. He made up for his awkwardness by making easy conversation which abruptly grew amusing.
“Hey, Edge?” Cath called even though he was right there, interrupting him. He rolled his eyes then turned—without burning anything, thankfully, trying not to show that he’d much rather be looking at her than cooking.
“Yeah?”
She had a decidedly mischievous look on her face. “Why is Bono back in school?”
Edge snorted. “Oh, you’ll like this, Cath.” She gave him a questioning look, waiting. Edge stifled rising laughter, which resulted in a rather high-pitched response, and saved the eggs.
“He failed out of Gaelic last year and he has to retake it to graduate.”
Cath’s eyes sparkled wickedly. “Did he really?” She sighed. “That would explain why he looks so confused when I talk sometimes.”
“You talk to him in Gaelic?” Edge was curious, despite himself. He had the abrupt thought that her voice was probably beautiful when she spoke in that language—to him, even when it was rough-edged in pain or hoarse from singing, her voice was beautiful anyway.
“I don’t mean to,” Cath said. “It just comes out. I’m not used to speaking Béarla.” He assumed that meant English.
She gave a fond smile, musing as she continued, “It’s probably because Gaelic was what I spoke in when I felt safe. My mother rarely spoke in English, though the men of the house did.” She shook her head, muttering, “why am I being so sentimental,” the smile growing amused.
Edge couldn’t stop the laughter from escaping, and had to keep himself away from the still-being-prepared breakfast so he wouldn’t knock it over into the sink. His shoulders shook and he wiped his eyes, while Cath just looked confused.
“That’s…that’s…” he began, but speech was failing him while he was in the throes of a giggle fit. He shook his head until he regained the power of speech. “Paul…” he said weakly.
“I know,” she replied evilly. “It’s really sad. I suppose I’ll restrain myself from teasing him mercifully…”
Edge had recovered use of his limbs in a coordinated manner and brought two plates to the table. Cath sighed happily: he had obviously factored in the need for excess intake of food, and—she grabbed at one of the glasses he held and downed the orange juice inside—her intense craving for fruit. Ahh.
Edge was staring at her, the amused look replaced with a sort of awe at her powers of consumption. “Sorry,” Cath said, chuckling. “I’ve been really, really hungry lately. Paul keeps having to go for groceries…”
They both fell still, Cath with contentment, Edge still staring despite himself. Inadvertently he blocked her path as she rose to deal with her dishes, and his body brushed against hers for a moment before he muttered an apology and Cath found a way around the roadblock, not looking him in the eye. He practically shook, feeling like a tidal wave had rushed through him and then exited, not really sure of normal or sanity anymore. No—sanity was avoiding discussion of that moment; he knew anything that popped out of his mouth then would be wrong. He vigorously attacked his dishes, Cath absently wondering why his hands weren’t callused as they had been.
The faucet felt good over her hands, blasting any nonexistent dirt away. Quite quickly they finished washing the small amount of dishes. Edge turned to see Cath briefly in profile, and frowned.
“How long’s it been?” he asked, obviously referencing the baby. She smiled, brightening as she turned. “About eight months,” she said, and unexpectedly grabbed Edge’s arm. He tried to ignore the way his heart skipped a few beats before it began to race. “Come on, I can show you,” she grinned, dragging him over to the living room and firmly placing him on the couch, turning to search through various scraps of lyrics and photos and the like to come and launch herself into the space next to him, handing him a large envelope.
“Take a look at this,” Cath beamed. He opened the envelope and pulled out the ultrasound picture, despite himself feeling something rush and still within him at the sight. He hadn’t really thought of Cath’s baby except for in wide, vague areas like whether it would live or not. The pictures were obviously from maybe a couple months ago, a little blurry from motion. She pointed out various features, identifying them softly, until he dragged her hand away, intent.
“I’m pretty sure it’s a boy,” Cath said conspiratorially. “Paul has no idea. I want it to be a surprise.”
“Cath,” Edge began, lowering the glossy paper, some reflection catching in his eyes, his expression very serious. He couldn’t continue; his body language said enough.
She shook her head. “I’m trying not to worry him. The past few months, I’ve been sure everything’s fine. I have been having the occasional uncomfortable twinges for the past few days. I think it will probably wait until the right time, though; I called the doctor and they said not to worry, that that’s normal.”
There was something underneath her expression, though, caught in the same reflective light in Edge’s eyes, that gave his thoughts pause for a second before he decided he’d imagined it.
“Walking’s not fun,” Cath commented, leaning against him. “My balance is getting really, really weird with all this weight in the front. It’s a pity; I’d love to swim.” Edge shook his head in a very definite no, and Cath laughed. “I know.” She shifted, her head on his shoulder, and yawned. “Mind if I get more sleep?”
Edge murmured some sort of acceptance, and Cath gratefully closed her eyes. It was relieving to be near someone, and she practically fell straight asleep after navigating what parts of Edge’s shoulder were only slightly bony and not uncomfortable to pillow her head against. The baby’s presence was demanding; she’d lost sleep for the last week with his restlessness keeping her awake, and fought to regain it. Sleep overtook her swiftly and deeply. She was oddly glad the dream of her mother and the little boy did not return, replaced instead by a memory of the ocean, the water supporting her as she drifted out and out and at last returned.
“Thanks, Edge,” Bono murmured quietly in the afternoon when he came in to find Cath fast asleep, her face pressed against his best friend’s shoulder, the envelope clutched loosely in her hand. Edge nodded and motioned for Bono to come closer, and supported Cath’s head while Paul moved in to replace him, before reluctantly going out the door, feeling bereft.
Silly Bono. 
