AnCatKatie
Rock n' Roll Doggie ALL ACCESS
There's an awesome non-PG version available by PM or email 
This one below's a leeetle more appropriate. And 'PG' is a little loosely defined
Not mine (unfortunately), and mostly not true. Yes, there was a girl who knew Gaelic who slept with Bono once and supposedly broke his heart. No, that may not be the full story.
Sorry so little happens. Then again, what does happen should make up for that
I made sure to put some lyric references in there, so if you catch them, cheers
Up next is Ali's reflections on the bathtub scene (that may also be PM. I haven't decided yet) and what happens after this (good lord, could I be more unrevealing? ...yes...)
—
Paul shoved his hands in his pockets and headed to the studio. Cath had fallen asleep on the couch, and Paul had looked at her, feeling lost and disconnected from the world, until Ali startled him by walking into the room. Edge hadn’t been glaring at him any more, at least, though the guitarist was quieter than usual.
“I’m going to work on some music,” Bono had said, Ali looking at him strangely, Edge saying nothing.
The studio was empty. Paul called the rest of his bandmates. Adam said it would be a half hour or so, Larry promised he’d be there, and Edge was uncertain; Bono didn’t call him, knowing Edge would arrive if he wanted to. He was still unsettled that Edge had almost attacked him over a one night stand…
But she’s not, really, he thought. The black and white of the couch and the walls faded into phosphorescent childish musings and then exploded into memory, as Bono hummed aimlessly.
He stepped as though electrocuted from the stage, the set over at last. The air was fogged with the sliding breath of the crashing bodies dancing and yelling for the past hour or so, and punctured by the lights above and the softer streetlights glowing from the cracks under the poster-clad windows. There were so many people in there it was a wonder Paul could think. He was inexorably drawn in the sensation of being pulled somewhere—he turned his head aside and called to the rest of the band, and they waved and hollered back that they’d be here still in an hour’s time if he wanted to play another round. He shook his pounding head, crossed the room, shouldering away the appreciative slaps on his back. Everything drained from around him, the air clear and unimportant. She leaned against the wall, at first indistinguishable from the darkness: only her exposed skin shone white, her hair and clothing dark, her eyes glittering. She held out her hand and grabbed his, her smile easing any trepidation he had had.
They walked to her apartment—he couldn’t have broken away if he had tried. Suddenly awkward, aware of his hand and hers, he looked over at her and saw the bruises on her face. His throat was solid, his mouth unwilling to open for speech, and so he didn’t ask, though plainly he wondered what happened to her. It was a sudden sadness in his eyes.
The buildings and the rain-grey sidewalks sped past without a glance from him. He could feel her heartbeat in her hand.
“What was the song about?” she asked him, eyes flickering as she looked at him. He wasn’t sure if he could look back for long and still walk. Her accent was a little unfamiliar, but not impossible to place: she probably spoke something else, Welsh or Gaelic or something, more than English.
“A lot,” he grinned, and she laughed. “My mother died a few years back…it’s about her, a little,” he said more quietly, “though really it’s about unconditional love.” He grinned again, feeling like a bit of her danger was entering him; he had grown a little bolder.
“You’re good,” she said, meaning musically. “Why are you wasting your time playing in bars?”
“To meet people like you,” he replied amusedly. She raised her eyebrows. “Well, we’re trying to put a record together, and we have some of the songs more or less finished. But…there’s something missing from it, some key element. And we still have a few songs to start from scratch before it can be finished.”
“And it can’t all be about childhood,” she guessed with a wicked half-smile.
“No,” he agreed, an equal smile beginning shyly on his face.
She stopped walking and led him up the steps and through the door, flattening herself against it as he came through and pulling him into her arms. They were oddly rough, laced with faint scars. Somehow, that made tears prick his eyes. Very slowly, she leaned forward and kissed his tears away, brushing her lips across his cheekbone and at last meeting his softly. He pulled away after what seemed like forever, breathing heavily, seeing his expression reflected in her face.
Light streamed in through the window, striking her cheekbones and her eyes and her mischievous smile. Her fingers were at his waistband—he made a strangled noise—and tugged at his shirt, pulling it clumsily over his head. He raised his eyebrows. “You haven’t done this much, have you?” he gasped. Some pain showed briefly in her eyes and she shook her head, back to normal as she gave that half-smile again. “And you haven’t done this at all,” she guessed accurately, kissing him gently and then harder until he thought their bodies would never separate.
Paul looked wonderingly into the beginning dawn, seeing and feeling at once another world that had risen with the sun, punctuated with the closeness between them and the music apparent everywhere.
“Thank you,” she said, kissing his eyelids. He looked up and saw there were faint tears in her own. She smiled as he brushed them away, then kissed her for a longer time, wrapping his arms around her naked shoulders, reflecting on her scars in the morning light.
“You have my heart within you,” he whispered against her skin. “That’s what the music is: those remnants inside me calling back for it.”
They had both strengthened and weakened, lingering in each others’ presence.
“Tell me you’ll see me again?” he said, at last, before he unwillingly left, his shirt unbuttoned; his fingers shook when he tried to put it on properly. A beautiful, strange energy had gone from her and awakened him.
“If I don’t, I’ll hear you,” she grinned, looking out the window even after he was gone.
It had been entirely different than anything Paul had expected. In a strange way, he felt as though he knew Cath better than Ali—and he did, in one sense. It made everything impossible now, especially after Ali had done…whatever she had done in that bathtub when he was drunk.
Taking advantage of me, were you, Ali? he wondered amusedly, a little hurt, remembering her clothes had been on the floor near his. Maybe he was wrong. He should be able to remember at least some of it…and he felt entirely the same as he had before around Ali: confused.
He broke off from that thought, still caught in that place between memory and reality. That single kiss between he and Cath—I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have—had punched a hole through him again, awakening the raw pain and desire and hurt he had felt when he heard nothing from her after they had slept together.
He wasn’t aware of Adam and Larry and Edge in the room, tuning their instruments. To himself, and then loudly to somewhere beyond, he sang from the depths of his thoughts that raced across his mind.
“Say goodnight…”
Larry and Edge looked up and Adam snickered. There was something deep and unformed, almost animal in Bono’s voice in that single phrase.
“Three guesses who’s on his mind,” Adam said, poking Larry in the ribs. The drummer swatted Adam back absently, frowning, trying to think of a beat behind the words.
“Shut up,” Edge growled, looking a little pained. “It’s been forever since we’ve had a decent song, or even a go at one.” He picked up his guitar.
“She waits for me to me to turn out the light…”
“I’m right,” Adam whispered, grinning. Bono was oblivious.
Edge tried to catch the thoughts behind Bono’s eyes. He tried to believe—it was easier, now—that Bono was sincere and somehow innocent in all this. Mostly. Concentrating not only on his instrument, Edge noticed that Bono seemed…younger, almost, more like he was still being formed. He had become Paul Hewson again, who spoke through his singing.
“Lay there still…” Paul closed his eyes. When he opened them, an odd dual thought came to his mind. He thought of what had been done to Cath, and the lyrics changed themselves into different people. Somehow he sensed it would not be right to have the identities right. He had seen the way Cath had looked at him after he hit her father. Not because he was her father, but because Bono had turned into someone briefly terrible…I’m sorry, he thought, wincing, knowing he would have to show her that was not him.
“She waits to break my will…”
Edge drew his breath in sharply. Paul…what was he doing with these lyrics? He was probably at least half right, but that obviously was not what he meant.
Unable to form words, Bono practically moaned musically into the microphone.
The next words were whispered by Edge against the lyrics going to shit again. He hardly realized until he spoke them, his voice on its own a little like music.
“Yes, and I know the truth
About you…”
Larry, dazed, hit the drums. It seemed a little harsh in that part. They would have to rework it later.
Edge finished, almost as an afterthought, “she-cat.”
“That was…” Larry began.
“Sexual?” Adam muttered. “We should come across this woman again. Maybe Bono could actually finish a song.”
Bono surfaced from his daze and shook his head. “What?” he asked of the ending words.
“Ali pronounces her name ‘cat’ and Cath means ‘cat’ in Welsh… ‘an cat dubh’,” Edge said, trailing off, crossing his arms. Bono narrowed his eyes, wondering why Edge was being so…well, edgy. He seemed better than he had before, though, when Bono had thought Edge would kill him.
“Hmm,” Paul said. “Nice phrase. What does it mean?”
“Gaelic was not your strong point,” Edge stated the obvious, rolling his eyes.
“Yeah, good excuse for an Irishman you are, B,” Larry agreed, chuckling.
“Shut up,” the singer answered irritably, waving his arms for Edge to continue.
“The black cat,” Edge explained.
Bono thought, rubbed his neck, pushed his hair away from his eyes, then rose from where he had been kneeling for about the past half hour.
“Well, I can’t think of any more lyrics at this point,” he said frustratedly.
“You should go see her,” Adam suggested again, smiling evilly.
“Take your mind off messing the words up,” Larry agreed.
Edge did not seem very enthusiastic but a little impatient at the same time. He had been all but pushed out of the house by Ali, after sitting with her and Cath in silence, no-one able to speak after what had happened. “It’s weird to have strange men in the house suddenly,” she’d said, directing him to the door apologetically. “You can’t stay here indefinitely. Go help Bono.”
“Wait—she’s staying with Ali? What?” Adam said in response to what Edge had said to Bono. “Hmm. Two women Bono’s obsessed with, in the same house. Should do wonders.”
Bono shot him an evil glare. “Shut up, Clayton.” Larry was all too pleased to whack Adam lightly with a drumstick, which Adam yanked out of Larry’s hand and proceeded to beat him with. Edge jumped into the fray and pulled the laughing boys apart so they didn’t further harm each other.
“It’s a good idea, though,” he agreed. “I didn’t get a chance to talk with Cath and figure out what’s going on.” Which Bono had been wondering for the past few hours.
“Okay,” Edge said. “Let’s work on what we have so far, and then I’ll call Ali.”
This one below's a leeetle more appropriate. And 'PG' is a little loosely defined Not mine (unfortunately), and mostly not true. Yes, there was a girl who knew Gaelic who slept with Bono once and supposedly broke his heart. No, that may not be the full story.
Sorry so little happens. Then again, what does happen should make up for that
I made sure to put some lyric references in there, so if you catch them, cheers Up next is Ali's reflections on the bathtub scene (that may also be PM. I haven't decided yet) and what happens after this (good lord, could I be more unrevealing? ...yes...)
—
Paul shoved his hands in his pockets and headed to the studio. Cath had fallen asleep on the couch, and Paul had looked at her, feeling lost and disconnected from the world, until Ali startled him by walking into the room. Edge hadn’t been glaring at him any more, at least, though the guitarist was quieter than usual.
“I’m going to work on some music,” Bono had said, Ali looking at him strangely, Edge saying nothing.
The studio was empty. Paul called the rest of his bandmates. Adam said it would be a half hour or so, Larry promised he’d be there, and Edge was uncertain; Bono didn’t call him, knowing Edge would arrive if he wanted to. He was still unsettled that Edge had almost attacked him over a one night stand…
But she’s not, really, he thought. The black and white of the couch and the walls faded into phosphorescent childish musings and then exploded into memory, as Bono hummed aimlessly.
He stepped as though electrocuted from the stage, the set over at last. The air was fogged with the sliding breath of the crashing bodies dancing and yelling for the past hour or so, and punctured by the lights above and the softer streetlights glowing from the cracks under the poster-clad windows. There were so many people in there it was a wonder Paul could think. He was inexorably drawn in the sensation of being pulled somewhere—he turned his head aside and called to the rest of the band, and they waved and hollered back that they’d be here still in an hour’s time if he wanted to play another round. He shook his pounding head, crossed the room, shouldering away the appreciative slaps on his back. Everything drained from around him, the air clear and unimportant. She leaned against the wall, at first indistinguishable from the darkness: only her exposed skin shone white, her hair and clothing dark, her eyes glittering. She held out her hand and grabbed his, her smile easing any trepidation he had had.
They walked to her apartment—he couldn’t have broken away if he had tried. Suddenly awkward, aware of his hand and hers, he looked over at her and saw the bruises on her face. His throat was solid, his mouth unwilling to open for speech, and so he didn’t ask, though plainly he wondered what happened to her. It was a sudden sadness in his eyes.
The buildings and the rain-grey sidewalks sped past without a glance from him. He could feel her heartbeat in her hand.
“What was the song about?” she asked him, eyes flickering as she looked at him. He wasn’t sure if he could look back for long and still walk. Her accent was a little unfamiliar, but not impossible to place: she probably spoke something else, Welsh or Gaelic or something, more than English.
“A lot,” he grinned, and she laughed. “My mother died a few years back…it’s about her, a little,” he said more quietly, “though really it’s about unconditional love.” He grinned again, feeling like a bit of her danger was entering him; he had grown a little bolder.
“You’re good,” she said, meaning musically. “Why are you wasting your time playing in bars?”
“To meet people like you,” he replied amusedly. She raised her eyebrows. “Well, we’re trying to put a record together, and we have some of the songs more or less finished. But…there’s something missing from it, some key element. And we still have a few songs to start from scratch before it can be finished.”
“And it can’t all be about childhood,” she guessed with a wicked half-smile.
“No,” he agreed, an equal smile beginning shyly on his face.
She stopped walking and led him up the steps and through the door, flattening herself against it as he came through and pulling him into her arms. They were oddly rough, laced with faint scars. Somehow, that made tears prick his eyes. Very slowly, she leaned forward and kissed his tears away, brushing her lips across his cheekbone and at last meeting his softly. He pulled away after what seemed like forever, breathing heavily, seeing his expression reflected in her face.
Light streamed in through the window, striking her cheekbones and her eyes and her mischievous smile. Her fingers were at his waistband—he made a strangled noise—and tugged at his shirt, pulling it clumsily over his head. He raised his eyebrows. “You haven’t done this much, have you?” he gasped. Some pain showed briefly in her eyes and she shook her head, back to normal as she gave that half-smile again. “And you haven’t done this at all,” she guessed accurately, kissing him gently and then harder until he thought their bodies would never separate.
Paul looked wonderingly into the beginning dawn, seeing and feeling at once another world that had risen with the sun, punctuated with the closeness between them and the music apparent everywhere.
“Thank you,” she said, kissing his eyelids. He looked up and saw there were faint tears in her own. She smiled as he brushed them away, then kissed her for a longer time, wrapping his arms around her naked shoulders, reflecting on her scars in the morning light.
“You have my heart within you,” he whispered against her skin. “That’s what the music is: those remnants inside me calling back for it.”
They had both strengthened and weakened, lingering in each others’ presence.
“Tell me you’ll see me again?” he said, at last, before he unwillingly left, his shirt unbuttoned; his fingers shook when he tried to put it on properly. A beautiful, strange energy had gone from her and awakened him.
“If I don’t, I’ll hear you,” she grinned, looking out the window even after he was gone.
It had been entirely different than anything Paul had expected. In a strange way, he felt as though he knew Cath better than Ali—and he did, in one sense. It made everything impossible now, especially after Ali had done…whatever she had done in that bathtub when he was drunk.
Taking advantage of me, were you, Ali? he wondered amusedly, a little hurt, remembering her clothes had been on the floor near his. Maybe he was wrong. He should be able to remember at least some of it…and he felt entirely the same as he had before around Ali: confused.
He broke off from that thought, still caught in that place between memory and reality. That single kiss between he and Cath—I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have—had punched a hole through him again, awakening the raw pain and desire and hurt he had felt when he heard nothing from her after they had slept together.
He wasn’t aware of Adam and Larry and Edge in the room, tuning their instruments. To himself, and then loudly to somewhere beyond, he sang from the depths of his thoughts that raced across his mind.
“Say goodnight…”
Larry and Edge looked up and Adam snickered. There was something deep and unformed, almost animal in Bono’s voice in that single phrase.
“Three guesses who’s on his mind,” Adam said, poking Larry in the ribs. The drummer swatted Adam back absently, frowning, trying to think of a beat behind the words.
“Shut up,” Edge growled, looking a little pained. “It’s been forever since we’ve had a decent song, or even a go at one.” He picked up his guitar.
“She waits for me to me to turn out the light…”
“I’m right,” Adam whispered, grinning. Bono was oblivious.
Edge tried to catch the thoughts behind Bono’s eyes. He tried to believe—it was easier, now—that Bono was sincere and somehow innocent in all this. Mostly. Concentrating not only on his instrument, Edge noticed that Bono seemed…younger, almost, more like he was still being formed. He had become Paul Hewson again, who spoke through his singing.
“Lay there still…” Paul closed his eyes. When he opened them, an odd dual thought came to his mind. He thought of what had been done to Cath, and the lyrics changed themselves into different people. Somehow he sensed it would not be right to have the identities right. He had seen the way Cath had looked at him after he hit her father. Not because he was her father, but because Bono had turned into someone briefly terrible…I’m sorry, he thought, wincing, knowing he would have to show her that was not him.
“She waits to break my will…”
Edge drew his breath in sharply. Paul…what was he doing with these lyrics? He was probably at least half right, but that obviously was not what he meant.
Unable to form words, Bono practically moaned musically into the microphone.
The next words were whispered by Edge against the lyrics going to shit again. He hardly realized until he spoke them, his voice on its own a little like music.
“Yes, and I know the truth
About you…”
Larry, dazed, hit the drums. It seemed a little harsh in that part. They would have to rework it later.
Edge finished, almost as an afterthought, “she-cat.”
“That was…” Larry began.
“Sexual?” Adam muttered. “We should come across this woman again. Maybe Bono could actually finish a song.”
Bono surfaced from his daze and shook his head. “What?” he asked of the ending words.
“Ali pronounces her name ‘cat’ and Cath means ‘cat’ in Welsh… ‘an cat dubh’,” Edge said, trailing off, crossing his arms. Bono narrowed his eyes, wondering why Edge was being so…well, edgy. He seemed better than he had before, though, when Bono had thought Edge would kill him.
“Hmm,” Paul said. “Nice phrase. What does it mean?”
“Gaelic was not your strong point,” Edge stated the obvious, rolling his eyes.
“Yeah, good excuse for an Irishman you are, B,” Larry agreed, chuckling.
“Shut up,” the singer answered irritably, waving his arms for Edge to continue.
“The black cat,” Edge explained.
Bono thought, rubbed his neck, pushed his hair away from his eyes, then rose from where he had been kneeling for about the past half hour.
“Well, I can’t think of any more lyrics at this point,” he said frustratedly.
“You should go see her,” Adam suggested again, smiling evilly.
“Take your mind off messing the words up,” Larry agreed.
Edge did not seem very enthusiastic but a little impatient at the same time. He had been all but pushed out of the house by Ali, after sitting with her and Cath in silence, no-one able to speak after what had happened. “It’s weird to have strange men in the house suddenly,” she’d said, directing him to the door apologetically. “You can’t stay here indefinitely. Go help Bono.”
“Wait—she’s staying with Ali? What?” Adam said in response to what Edge had said to Bono. “Hmm. Two women Bono’s obsessed with, in the same house. Should do wonders.”
Bono shot him an evil glare. “Shut up, Clayton.” Larry was all too pleased to whack Adam lightly with a drumstick, which Adam yanked out of Larry’s hand and proceeded to beat him with. Edge jumped into the fray and pulled the laughing boys apart so they didn’t further harm each other.
“It’s a good idea, though,” he agreed. “I didn’t get a chance to talk with Cath and figure out what’s going on.” Which Bono had been wondering for the past few hours.
“Okay,” Edge said. “Let’s work on what we have so far, and then I’ll call Ali.”
yes please! 
