Beyond

The ground screams up at him, racing cliffs and rocks and sand, racing past his body, falling, rushing, closer, closer, closer, and at the bottom, on the floor of the canyon, just before he hits the ground, there's a carpet of blue. A carpet that becomes individual flowers, becomes her eyes, shades of blue breaking his fall, violet darkened by pain.

His eyes snap open, wide in the dark room, and he can't even reach for the bedside lamp, and it finally hits him on his third night home, when he tries to turn toward her, the silhouette of her body too far away.

She's afraid of him.

Her body is curled into the fetal position, tucked so tightly to the edge of the bed that he's afraid she might fall off, her hands balled into fists tucked under her chest, pinning them against herself.

But who is he kidding? She'd been sleeping like that for weeks before he left. There may as well have been a line drawn between them, neither one dropping their defenses, even in the unconscious movements of sleep.

But this is different—this is Rory afraid. She's wounded as much as he is, but he can't see her scars, like she can see his, and he wonders how long they'll take to heal, when he'll know that they're not still open, bleeding, raw.

Logan sighs, the deep breath pulling at his not-yet-healed stitches, and he gasps, involuntary tears stinging his eyes. Rory stirs, her head turning slightly at the noise. He stops moving, long moments passing as he lies on his back, breathing slowly, evenly, smoothly, until the pain dulls from the sharp, searing hot stabs in his gut to the persistent, constant throbbing that he's familiar with by now.

His bed doesn't feel like his own bed. Sure, it's better than the sterile white of the hospital bed, but it's not fully his yet. The room is too dark, the streetlights twelve stories below too weak to light the room; the stars too far away to be more than twinkling pinpricks in a distant inky sky. Everything is foreign, as though he's come back

Three nights before Rory started sleeping beside him again, and still she sleeps fitfully, waking too often, too restless, too shallow. He feels her restlessness and it keeps him lingering on the edge of slumber, powerless to reach out and draw her in, draw himself in: it hurts, and he won't admit that pain to her, but it's stabbing and sharp, and at moments, it's all he can do to breathe through it.

He turns his head, feeling every muscle in his neck stretch and flex as he turns toward her, like a sunflower turning toward the sun. Logan's body remains immobile, frozen in casts and painkillers, but he stretches out an arm, reaching for Rory's hand, entangling their pinkies together.

She stirs, finally turning to him, her old instincts overpowering her hesitations, one foot nudging his, and he catches his breath, exhaling deeply through the pain, the slight shifting of his leg that sends a bolt of fire up from his toes, settling in his hip.

Rory's fear radiates even in sleep. What was it like for her, those hours of wondering? (That day, that night, that time erased from his mind.) When Colin called, what roller coaster caused her stomach to drop, her heart to jump into her throat? Was it the fear that she might only ever see him again cold and waxy, coffin-fake and ghost-pale? Or was it the thought that he had taken away her reason to leave him?

(He shudders, filling his lungs, just to prove to himself that he can.)

He remembers her face, waking up in a haze of medicated oblivion and drugged pain, floating within his line of vision, pinched tight and pale, and for the first time, he was helpless. The thing that scares him most is that the helplessness hasn't gone away. He can't charm it away with words and grins, can't pretend that mortality doesn't stare him in the face, taunting and pointing fingers.

It's a strange sensation, this overwhelming desire to shelter her, to protect her, and Logan hates the fact that he was the one to make her cry. Every time she shies away, pulling her hand from his face too soon, brushing his lips with a kiss that ends too quickly, a piece of himself breaks off, and he wants to take it all back, to go back to a time before she hurt, before he jumped. Regret plagues him for the first time, and it's an unfamiliar feeling.

Rory turns again, rolling closer, and Logan holds his breath, wanting her to keep coming toward him, snuggling into his side. He'll gladly sacrifice his sleep for that—it's not like he's getting much anyway.

She seems to sense him, though, and instead of rolling into him, her nose tucked into his side and an arm flung across his waist, she stops short, a foot tentatively entwined with his, their fingers still tangled together.

And then her foot touches his cast, and her eyes flutter open.

"Hey," he whispers as her eyes slowly focus on him.

"Sorry," she mumbles, tucking her foot against her opposite leg, curling her hands against her chest, rolling back over.

"Ace…"

Rory sits up, immediately awake, turning on the lamp. "Are you okay? Do you need me to get something for you? Do you need to go to the bathroom?"

"No," Logan sighs, shaking his head slightly and reaching out a hand to take hers.

"Then… what?" Rory reaches up to brush the hair off his forehead, bracing herself on her opposite hand, her fingers lingering on his forehead. "You don't feel warm—does it feel like your fever's coming back?"

"Rory…" Her name is a plea, a cry, a prayer, a lifeline. Logan turns his head into her palm, brushing it with his lips. She softens, her fingers caressing his face, tracing soft, random patterns, her fingers dancing feather-light across his scars. Her breath catches, ragged and sharp, as her fingers trace the angry red scars across his cheeks, and Logan looks up to see tears gathering on Rory's lower lashes.

"Hey," he whispers, searching her face with his eyes. "It's okay. You know that, right?"

The tears spill out onto her cheeks, tracing trails down her face. She nods, her lips pressed together, and takes her hand away to swipe at the tears. Logan grasps for it, though, surprising even himself as he catches her hand fully in his, surprised at the range of motion in his shoulder.

"Don't."

"But…" she buries her face in her pillow, trying to wipe off the tears that way. "I'm a mess. And we should both be sleeping right now."

Logan shakes his head slowly, tugging on her hand with as much strength as he can muster. "No, we shouldn't."

Inwardly begging, asking her to realize that he needs her to need him, that this self-sufficient silent suffering isn't good enough. That it's not doing him any favors when she tries to pretend it's all okay. He tips his head over hers, resting his forehead on the crown of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair and feeling the soft shudders of her tears.

Breathing, just breathing. He doesn't say anything, hoping that even his breath washing over her will be reassurance enough that he's not going anywhere, that he's alive and real and vital, and he needs to remind himself, just as much as she needs to be reminded.

Her shaking subsides, and she slips out, taking a deep breath as she adjusts the t-shirt she's wearing over an old pair of his boxers. "I'll be back in a minute," she whispers, clicking off the light as she pads barefoot into the bathroom.

And as hard as he tries to stay awake, his eyelids become heavier as the minutes on the clock tick by, red beacons in the dark room, taunting him as the numbers pass and she doesn't come back. And when he falls asleep, it's alone again, but he can hear the gasping sobs coming from the bathroom, and it wrenches out a piece of him as he drifts back into an uneasy sleep, falling towards fields of blue flowers in his dreams.