Title: Like God's Only Dove
Category: Romance, angst, Dark!Bono, Zoo era, smut to come
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Feedback: Concrit enormously appreciated.
Summary: A brooding rock star finds beauty in a young girl who possesses something he lost a long time ago--innocence. But will she give him the solace he longs for? And at what price?
Notes: Thanks to the lovely Rhiannon for beta-ing for me! I must warn you that this is a very dark, AU Bono that you're about to meet. Hope it's not too traumatizing.
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It wasn't until he'd returned to his suite that he realized the wine glass was still clutched in his hand.
"I'm turning into a bloody alcoholic," he grumbled to himself before draining the glass and discarding it on the room service tray that held his uneaten dinner.
His thoughts turned to the young girl in the bar.She couldn't have been older than 22, maybe 23. Pretty in a simple way. Her scent had reminded him of soap and laundry detergent and her curly hair smelled faintly of lavendar. Clean. Untarnished. Unremarkable. But the way she'd played that piano, like she'd never be able to play another piano again in her life, like a last chance, a passionate goodbye...he couldn't deny it had turned him on.
He couldn't erase her look of utter defiance from his mind. The way she'd stared him down, as if she were daring him to do something. Daring him to do what? He smirked again, just thinking about it. Bono liked a good challenge. Liked that he could melt away the frosty defenses of every woman who'd ever tried to put up a cold front against him. He knew that he was irresistable. Women had described him as a 'walking orgasm,' 'sex on a stick'. Whatever the fuck that meant. To him, it meant he never heard the word 'no'.
"No," he said firmly to the backs of his tighly closed eyelids. He sat down hard on the edge of the bed and pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes until he began to see stars. He had to stop those thoughts. He was supposed to be past all that. Past looking at women as conquests to be discarded after the fact. Past using them to forget how lonely he was. That wasn't him, not really. He wasn't the arrogant, pathetic bastard that he had somehow become. But over the last five years he'd managed to push everyone who'd ever cared for him out of his life completely in favor of empty connections, pretty words spoken in hushed tones to seduce off silk and lace and try to connect skin-to-skin with another human being. He wasn't kidding anyone anymore, though, least of all himself. That kind of primitive connection was void. Meaningless. And easy...no one got hurt over a one night stand, or so he had thought. But he'd turned out to be wrong about that too. It had started to seem as though he brought pain upon every person he tried to get close to.
And Bono was over hurting people. He'd done enough of that in his lifetime.
He shook his head and scrubbed a rough hand over his tired face as he reclined onto the bed. He spent the next hour or so staring up at the ceiling, trying to think of anything but piano girl. This young, naive girl whose name he didn't even know. The type of girl he'd already have up in his room if he were still the man he was a year ago, careless and desperately trying to feel anything at all besides the emptiness that had invaded him. The emptiness he had created for himself. There were times that he would have given anything to unmake the mistakes of his past, to undo the wrongs that he'd done to the one woman who'd ever truly loved him and the handful of friends who'd actually been able to put up with him. But Ali was gone for good this time and his bandmates were just that these days--bandmates. And he no longer recognized himself.
He drifted off to sleep wondering for the thousandth night in a row how he'd
become this isolated.
* * * * *
"I can't believe how close he was. He was right in front of me, staring at me, making my molecules tremble. And I just...tossed my hair at him. What is wrong with me?" Angela wasn't sure if she was asking this of Julian, herself, or her eggs at the Runcible Spoon the next morning. She hadn't slept at all the night before, and was in fact still awake when he'd called her at nine and invited her out for breakfast.
"So exactly who is this guy anyway? Besides the sexiest man to ever walk into my bar," Julian inquired.
Angela gaped incredulously at him. "Ok, I know you're a jazz snob, but please don't try and tell me you've never heard of U2."
"You mean the 'Red Red Wine' guys?"
Angela nearly spit coffee all over the table, Julian, and the family of four at the next table. "That's UB40! Geez Julian, for a gay man, you sure aren't up on your pop culture. U2. 'With or Without You'? 'Where the Streets Have No Name'? 'ONE'?!"
"Oooohhh. Right. Them. And this guy is one of them?"
"Not just one of them. He's the lead singer. The lyrical soul. One of the
greatest rock frontmen of all time. And I tossed my hair at him. I'm a social failure." She stared miserably down at her eggs.
"It can't have been that bad. He did ask you to come to the bar again tonight, didn't he?"
He had indeed. Angela wasn't sure what was worse--the fact that she'd behaved like a beligerant teenager towards the man who had been her idol since she actually *was* a teenager, or the fact that he'd seemed to like it. She wasn't feisty. She was just stubborn. Stubborn and scared to let anyone in.
"Helloooo, Earth to Angie!" Julian was waving his toast in front of her face, dripping raspberry jam onto the already slightly greasy tablecloth.
"Ugh, don't call me Angie. No one has called me that since third grade. Except you." She shot him a warning glare as he rolled his eyes at her.
"Ok, Angela, here's what we're going to do. We're going to the Promenade and we're going to get you something fantastic to wear, and then we're going to Sephora. You need mascara and lip gloss. And perfume. Then you're going to come to work with me and drink something girly and wait for that fabulous man to walk in and see you sitting there, oozing sex. Got it?" And with that, he slapped some money down on the table, grabbed his hopeless friend by the wrist, and dragged her off to Santa Monica.
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Several hours later, after she'd sufficiently showered off all of the perfume
that Julian had doused her in, Angela paced back and forth in front of her mirror in the slinkiest little black dress she'd ever squeezed herself into. She couldn't possibly wear this out in public; she couldn't even believe she'd allowed Julian to talk her into buying it. There was cleavage and tightness and it just wasn't her at all. And she'd never be able to walk in those heels. She briefly entertained the idea of wearing the dress with her sneakers just to see the look on Julian's face. He just loved to tell her constantly that despite her fiercest fashion beliefs, "Chuck Taylors do NOT go with everything." She wriggled out of the dress, careful to keep the tags intact so she could return it.
She wasn't going to go. She'd decided. She'd be crazy to go.
* * * * *
Julian regarded her with disdain as she walked in as usual, just as the bar was closing. "You spend a week's salary on the sluttiest dress that Bebe ever made and then you walk in here in jeans and those damn sneakers. I give up. Get your ass over to that piano."
She wasn't sure what she was doing there. He probably wouldn't even come. But no sooner had she settled down onto the smooth, cool bench and begun to play than she felt his breath hot on the back of her neck. The bench gave a muffled groan as he sank down next to her.
"Don't stop," he whispered, brushing the hair from her cheek and tucking it
neatly behind her shoulder so he could see her face, watching her intently as she played. He followed the long, slender fingers as they made love to the ivory and it wasn't long before he'd become intoxicated by the sounds she was raising from the piano like the souls of lovers long dead. It was the same song she'd played the night before. The song that had made him love her before he'd even heard her speak.
He knew it was crazy. But he'd dreamt of her, sitting here, playing this song, and it had calmed his soul. It had brought him the elusive peace his weary mind had been seeking. It made him want to know her. There was something pure about this woman, something that made him feel he could wash away his sins in her innocence. He didn't know why. But he didn't care. He didn't care about anything when she was playing this song.
When she finished, he asked her name.
"Angela," she said, her gaze fixed shyly on the keys.
"Angela. Angel. My beautiful, snow white angel. Like God's only dove."
She snorted and looked incredulously up at him, disarmed. "Do you quote your
song lyrics to all the girls you try and seduce?"
"Who said I'm trying to seduce you? And only when they're true," he quipped
wickedly. He was suddenly entranced by her lips. Crimson and plump, the bottom one a little swollen as if she'd been biting it. Chewing nervously, he wondered? Anxious at the thought of seeing him again? He wanted badly to kiss that fat little worried lip, but he didn't want to fuck it up this quickly. Best to at least make this feeling last a little while before fucking it up. He could hear her breathing, rapid and short, and was pleased to know he was exciting her. He licked his lips and met her eyes.
Angela wasn't sure what was happening. All she knew was that he was close, he was so fucking close that she was accutely aware of every hair follicle on her body. She wasn't sure she'd ever felt that particular feeling before. Suddenly the room began to spin and she tried hard to focus, staring at his mouth. His lips were moving in slow motion; he was saying something but all she could hear was the pounding of her own blood in her ears as she imagined that mouth on her neck, her ear, her breasts. She started to fear she might faint, and for the second night in a row, she stumbled backwards off the piano bench. She needed space, she needed to breathe air that wasn't heavy with his scent. She turned her back to him and placed both palms on the cold glass top of the table in front of her, gulping in air as though she'd been holding her breath. Perhaps she had.
"Have I done something wrong?" he asked from behind her, and she whirled around. "No! No. I...I think maybe I should go. For a walk. I need some...fresh air." Avoiding his gaze, she stumbled over to where her jacket was slung over a barstool, hands trembling as she pulled it on. "I...it was nice meeting you, Bono...I don't think I can...ah..." She looked up at him, blanching a little at the bewildered look on his face. Suddenly she felt guilty. "I have to go. I'm sorry," she said quickly, and ducked out of the bar.
"Wait!" he called after her, but she didn't turn around. He had no idea what had just happened. He wanted to run after her, but it was as though his feet were rooted to the floor. So he just stared after her, watching her hurry across the deserted hotel lobby and out of the door, disappearing into the night.
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Okay, so I publicly deny being a fan of real people fic, but secretly, I love a good story.
I stumbled across the U2 fanfiction site through Interference, then had to follow a link here to positively CRY at you that there were only two chapters there. I was so sad to get to the end of chapter two and realize that was all there was so far.
This story is teh sex ... and you haven't even gotten to teh sex yet!
As a pianist myself, it's easy to Mary Sue myself into that story ... so thanks for that. ;-) Can't wait to read more!
Hee! Those parts are the most fun to write ... all the other stuff is way too hard. In my head, I just write smutty scenes all the time. ;-)
I think I'll go home and use this icon as inspiration for some more head-smut. Mmmm, smutty Bono. *g*