"And now for something completely different..."

Seriously. This is a break away from anything I have ever done before, in terms of story, style, tense, everything. I had this idea a long time ago, but started to write it for a different fandom - unfortunately, I ran out steam after publishing a few chapters, so I took it down and put it away. And then a few weeks back, the same idea wheedled its way back into my head and I started to think about how I could re-write the story for this fandom instead. Like I said, this is something completely new to me and even from this chapter, I've learnt so much about myself as a writer already. So I hope you'll join me for the ride.

Super massive thanks to gypsytherabblerouser for lending your ear a few weeks back so I could ramble on and hash out a vague plan and also to LetItReign for doing the same over the last week and reading and re-reading this chapter.

(To anyone who has read my many one-shots over the past year or so - I haven't forgotten about them, but my inspiration/muses have left me for the foreseeable. I hope they will return one day, but in the meantime, I hope you enjoy this offering)

WARNINGS: Language, slightly smutty, really angsty

DISCLAIMER: I only own my imagination and my OCs.

Enjoy x

The Sky's Edge

'Cause if you let me, here's what I'll do
I'll take care of you
I've loved and I've lost
Take Care, Drake Feat. Rhianna

Chapter 1

He wiped a hand across the mirror, smearing the dust and grime and flecks of toothpaste and hair spray. Through the dirt, he glared at himself, scowling, frowning, contorting his face, trying to figure out what looked best. His brow furrowed, his nose scrunched up as he fumbled for the beer bottle, fingers fluttering over the neck before–

"Fuck!"

His gaze dropped and he watched beer slowly pool around his feet. Glancing around, he reached for a cloth, settling instead for a dirty shirt. With one hand on the sink to keep his balance, he leaned down and mopped up the wasted drink. The shirt slopped lazily from side to side as the beer slowly soaked through it. Satisfied with his handiwork, he tossed the shirt aside, a squelchy thud confirming its landing in the shower cubicle. He made a mental note to retrieve it before his next shower. The last thing he needed was an injury – a slipped disc from a rogue shirt wasn't exactly bad-ass. He shook his head. Fuck the injury, he could just do without the added headache of a broken shower.

Looking back at the mirror, he let his eyes rove. He took in the dark bags under his eyes, the cut on his lip, the faint bruise on his forehead, the latter two bringing back vague memories of the previous night when he'd lost a battle with gravity and fell against the helpless kitchenette cabinet. Sweeping back the mop of dark hair, he turned to the left and admired the faint scar running along his hairline, past his ear, towards his throat – a bittersweet token of a childhood well spent. His fingers brushed over the purple mark on this neck, the only bruise inflicted by another and purely for the sake of pleasure. He allowed himself a small smirk.

A loud rap at the door broke him out of his reverie.

"Ten minutes, man. Hurry up."

"Yeah, yeah. Coming."

Picking up the empty beer bottle, he turned away from the mirror and shut out the light. As he stalked towards the door, he chucked the bottle into the trashcan, mentally high-fiving himself when it crashed and broke. He grabbed his jacket, checking the pockets for cigarettes before kicking open the trailer door.

Dean frowned up at him, his nose wrinkling. "Shit, Roman. How much have you drunk already?"

"None of your goddamn business." Roman tugged his jacket on, zipping it up to the chest before pulling out the cigarette pack.

Dean rolled his eyes as he turned and walked away. Roman paused to light up and then followed him, away from the make-shift campsite and towards the tent, where the cheer of the crowd was loud above the steady beat of the music. Above them, the sky was lit up by the fairground lights, the mix of pinks, blues, greens and yellows making the faces of the thrill-seekers look beautifully haunting.

As he wound his way through the queues for cotton candy, funnel cake and the Ferris wheel, the sounds of screams and laughter echoing around him, he caught sight of a flash of brown hair out of the corner of his eye. A sudden chill ran down his spine and he paused, his eyes narrowing. But whoever it was had already disappeared.

Bile rose in Roman's throat and he ducked behind a hotdog stand. He leaned against the unit, feeling the steady hum of the generator vibrating through him as he breathed deeply. He tossed away the cigarette, shaking his head despair. Maybe the last beer was a mistake. Mistakes have a way of coming back to bite him in the ass days, weeks, months, even years later. And now he's started to imagine the impossible.

It wasn't her.

He tried to focus on the present: the roar of the crowd, louder than ever, the incessant drum beat, the vibrations in his chest. His palms started to sweat and he felt nausea wash over him yet again. He clenched his fists, fighting back like he's always done; his pre-show ritual that has only become worse since the accident.

He never used to have a problem. But back then, he didn't have any problems at all. They were having the time of their lives, thriving on the rush that performing gave them. He used to enjoy this shit. Sure, his heart would be thumping so hard that he thought it might explode, but that was just the adrenalin. The thrill of the ride. The power that surged through him when he started the engine, fastened his helmet and drove steadily into the steel cage. Christ, nothing could ever top that. Even when it was all over, he still craved more.

The only person who wanted it more than him was her. She was their number one fan and she dreamed as hard as them. She'd helped them formulate grand plans that would take them far away from here. Fuck this, she'd say as they sat and drank and plotted. She told them how they deserved their own show, none of this ten-minute bullshit. You'll be the stars, she said. Roman could remember her eyes as she spoke, so bright and excited, her hands clapping together in endless enthusiasm as they thought up new tricks to showcase exactly what they were capable of.

Taking one last steadying breath, Roman emerged from behind the hotdog stand and made a beeline for the tent. Dean was waiting patiently, one eyebrow rising as he took in his friend's pale face. He opened his mouth to reassure, but one look from Roman changed his mind. Instead, he thrust the helmet into Roman's hands without a word. Next to Dean was Seth, ready to go, bouncing his bike and flexing the accelerator, forcing loud roars from the exhaust. In their business, cocky was dangerous. But Seth was just about on the right side of being a danger to himself and others. He exuded confidence and Roman felt a stab of guilt as he remembered who had dragged that out of him.

Seth caught his eye and Roman gave him a curt nod before pulling down the visor of his helmet, shielding his eyes and thoughts from him and the rest of the world. Seth returned the nod before turning his bike towards the ring entrance, revving his engine once again.

Through the helmet, the crowd was muffled, but there was nothing to hide Roman from the flash of cameras, the heat of the spotlight and the looming cage ahead of him. Up the ramp, into the abyss, swinging his bike left as he entered to line up in front of Seth. Dean followed him and as the cage door was pulled shut, their eyes met.

His look said it all.

It wasn't your fault.

Roman revved his engine in response.

As they slowly shifted back and forth, the music building, Roman chanced a look out to the crowd. The faces were blurred together, as usual, a mass of gawping mouths with hands over eyes. The faces swirled as the bikes surged forward, climbing the wall of the cage and then dropping back down a second later. Up and down, over and over again. The smell of petrol, the roar of the engines was too much, but he can't stop. He couldn't stop then and he can't stop now.

No matter how many promises Dean makes, no matter how many times he tells Roman it wasn't his fault, he knows that it was.

He could see her. Staring at him. He blinked. The crowd blurred for a second and then her face, clear as day, reappeared.

Over and over again.

He wanted to look away, he wanted to close his eyes and blot out all of it; the bikes, the crowd, her face. But his eyes stayed wide and alert as he carried on turning round and round in the cage for all and sundry to gaze on in morbid fascination.

For them.

For her.

Katherina.

He lay on the bed, the sheets twisted around his waist, a beer in hand whilst another sat on the side table ready to go. He closed his eyes and her face rose up from the darkness, devoid of expression or emotion.

The moment they were done, he'd dumped the bike and stumbled back towards the ring entrance. But the lights were already low, the crowd hushed as Hunter, ringmaster extraordinaire, announced the next act. Rusev promptly pushed past him into the spotlight, flexing his muscles to oohs and aahs. Roman had stood there for a moment before he remembered.

She'd always been there. Before, during, after. She would wait patiently as he got geared up, offered him a chaste kiss before he slipped on his helmet before stepping back into the shadows to watch, a hand already creeping up to her mouth. Her nails were always short and ripped from her teeth gnawing at them for ten solid minutes every night. And when they emerged, bikes hot, their breathing ragged, she'd been there again, her hand clutching at his jacket as he tugged off his helmet and pulled her mouth to his.

There was a soft tap at the door and he looked up to see it rock open. Long hair cascaded down, dark brown eyes meeting his.

"Hey, want some company?"

Roman nodded, shifting over in the bed. Nikki closed the door, kicking off her boots and tugging down her shorts. Roman drained the rest of his beer, leaning over to place it out of harms way. Nikki stepped closer, her hand catching his, plucking the bottle from it and placing his palm over her breast instead. She crawled over him as he circled her nipple with his thumb, her hands pushing the sheets away.

All other thoughts faded away as she pressed open-mouthed kisses against his hip bone and he wrapped his fist in her hair.

Katherina blows hot air over his cheek as she pulls away. He reaches out to brush the hair out of her eyes, but she dances away. Her mouth curls into a small smile as she turns, her curtain of dark hair fanning out in the breeze. He tries to follow, but he's stuck. He tries to wriggle free, grimacing from the weight holding him in place.

Her face swirls round and round, her smile fading, her mouth twisting. Lights flash. His ears pound. The roar of the crowd getting stronger and stronger.

His legs are chained to the bike. His hands too. He tries to flex his fingers, but they're stuck, gripping the accelerator as he speeds round and round, up and down, swinging back and forth.

Katherina's arms are tight around him, too tight. He can't breathe, he can't move. It's too fast, the cage too small. He tries to stop, but when he hits the brakes, nothing happens.

She screams.

Roman gasped for breath, scrambling to sit up. A trickle of cold sweat eased its way between his shoulder blades as he breathed heavily. It's always the same. And he always sees it through, right to the end. The only question is how soon after the screaming begins will he wake up. Sometimes he comes round just as it starts, but not always. Sometimes the screaming goes on and on, just like it did then.

He knew she wasn't there earlier. He knew it was just his mind, his guilt playing tricks on him, haunting him, refusing to let him forget what he did, the damage he caused. An eye for an eye.

A life for a life.

Nikki's hand slid over his shoulder.

"Bad dream?" she murmured, but she already knew the answer.

"Always."

She tugged him back down, her fingertips drawing out patterns over his tattooed chest in an attempt to soothe him back to sleep. But minutes later, when her hand laid flat and her breathing was heavy from slumber, Roman was still awake.

Still thinking.

Still screaming.

Across the campsite, despite the late hour, a piece of paper was awaiting a signature. Eliana Connor sat at the table inside Hunter's trailer, a freshly written contract in front of her whilst she waited for him to find a pen.

As he moved around the trailer, Eliana's gaze fell on a photo pinned to the wall. She shifted in her seat, moving closer until she could make out the faces. It was a small group, barely twenty people and she realised it must have been an early formation of the troupe she was about to join. She recognised a handful of the faces that beamed up at her: Rusev, the strongman act she'd seen earlier, the red-head whose name she couldn't remember, but who'd wowed the crowd with her fire-eating skills and the three guys whose magic act had left her amazed and with a thousand and one questions that she knew would never be answered.

On the edge of the group, was another trio and she realised from their leathers that they were the stunt act that the crowd had cheered the loudest for and whose spectacle had made her breathless and dizzy. She frowned as she noticed the woman standing amongst them. Eliana couldn't recall seeing her during the show. She noticed how the woman was standing, her arms draped around the waist of one of the threesome, her head resting on his shoulder.

"Apologies," Hunter said as he returned to the table and offered her a newly-found pen. He noticed her looking at the photo and smiled. "We'd just started out back then."

"How long ago?" Eliana asked as she took the pen.

"Five years." His voice softened slightly. "I guess we're due a new photo, though, given a number of new faces we've had over the years."

Eliana nodded as she signed. "It's good to see that most of the originals are still here."

"Yes," Hunter agreed, but it didn't stop the flash of sadness in his eyes. "Most of them anyway."

He corrected his expression, offering Eliana a wide smile as she slid the signed contract across the table. As they stood, he offered her his hand.

"Welcome aboard."

A/N: Thoughts?