missingthekeep | Item Post [for Meredith]

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Item Post [for Meredith]

Sean sleeps well these days. Not heavily, and not nearly as soundly on the nights he spends alone, but better than he's slept in what feels like years, certainly. Which is what he chalks it up to when it takes him a few minutes to come to as he rolls over in the night and slips his arm underneath his pillow, finding a piece of thin, hard plastic there for him to wrap his hand around. Eventually, the fact that something's not quite right with that manages to filter through to him and he sits up abruptly, trying not to wake Meredith in the process.

It's too dark to see, but he's got that sinking feeling in his stomach that lets him know something's wrong, and he decides to duck out, see if he can get a better look outside. Scrounging around on the floor for a second in the gloom, he manages to find a pair of jeans to pull on before he sneaks out, as quietly as can, and lets his eyes adjust to the moonlight and the dim glow from a light down the path.

Of all the things to randomly turn up, he never would have expected the damn disk he'd been sent to Germany after, but somehow, he's not surprised in the slightest when he recognizes it, flipping the slim case over in his hands. The only question left is why it's there. It's not like the ring, it's nothing personal or of any value to anyone, especially here where it's worth less than the materials it's made out of. He should just chuck it off into the trees somewhere and go back to bed, back where he's wanted, forget about it the way he's been doing for months. And yet...

Sighing, he scrubs a hand over his face and searches for a spot to sit down, leaning against his hut. Take a second to process it and then get on with his life, he can do that. Never mind the way it seems to remind him that, on those nights where he's all alone with his thoughts, this life can feel like one big lie. "Mission accomplished, boyo," he mutters under his breath, tapping his nails against it. All the hell he'd been through before coming to the island, all for this. Fat lot of good it does him now.

None of it was ever about the mission, anyway.

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Sean gives a huff at that, harsh and a little hysterical like it comes as some surprise, like that's not exactly the sort of question she's supposed to ask in this situation. He gets how it's supposed to go. Now he's supposed to cave in and assure her that yes, he'll be fine in time, he's just in one of his little moods brought on by whatever stupid little thing he's decided to fixate on this time around. Screw that. God bless her for not assuming anything, at least, seeing as there's no possible way she could understand what's eating at him now. He's seen to that.

"Nope," he says after a second, his voice still sounding strangely hollow to his ears, like he's not the one guiding it. "I am 'bout as far from okay as... jus' go back ta bed, Meredith."

Alright, so now it's partly just that Meredith's being stubborn, but she doesn't want to. She's not half-asleep anymore, even as she stands up straighter, rubbing at her eyes, and she knows there's no going back to it when he's said that. It's not like she wants him to lie and say everything's okay when it isn't, but it's a lot easier to get some rest when she's not worried about him.

"I'm not just going to leave you out here," she says, like that should be blatantly obvious. "Not when you're..." Sighing, she leans a little forward without actually taking a step yet. "I don't know. Not okay. Talk to me."

He wants to, is the thing. He wants so badly to be able to get it all off his chest to the one person in the world that he wants to tell everything, but he can't. It's not just guilt over the things he's done, although it's harder than it ever was to deny that there's a lot of that, it's that they speak so strongly about who he is, who he always will be, and she knows none of it. He's let it all go for so long, pretending it isn't an issue, and now it's too late.

Forcing himself not to look up at her, he shakes his head again. "Nae a good idea, that." He doesn't know what good brushing her off will do in the long run, but he also doesn't have any better ideas at the moment.

There's nothing she can do to make him if he doesn't want to and it's not like she tells him every little thing. It's not like she tells him every big thing either. She can't do anything about it, but that really only makes her even less satisfied with that answer. All the same, all she can really do is walk over to him, combing her fingers through his hair to rest against his neck as she bends down to kiss his head.

"And when do I have any of those?" she asks, a little weary, if only with herself. There's no judgment here. She's never really had any right to judge. "I'm not going in. We don't have to talk, but I'm not going back to bed."

Even now, she's so good to him, as understanding as she can be, and as much as Sean knows he shouldn't, knows that he should just push her away and get it over with, it's impossible not to lean into her touch, just a little bit. It's disgusting, really. He doesn't deserve this. She doesn't deserve him, and she doesn't even know it.

"Guess I'll jus' have ta go someplace else, then," he grits out coldly, though he makes no real attempt to do so just yet. Fortunately, no matter what his actions might say to the contrary, anger is still winning out over any pain he feels for treating her like this.

The way that hits her, hard and cold in her stomach, sinks in before the actual meaning of the words, and she draws back, more instinctive than intentional. For a few seconds, she can't say anything at all. There's nothing she's done to earn that kind of treatment, not lately, certainly not right now, but that doesn't stop her from trying to think what she might have done wrong. Part of her wants to say Don't bother, wants to pick up and run home right away, too tired to play games, but she'd just lie awake there, too. She stands up straight again, folding her arms, and fights past the panic. "Okay, don't do this."

Her reaction hits him just as hard, like a blow to chest, but Sean holds fast to his own warped convictions, casting his eyes downward. When he speaks again, his words are quieter, more measured, but just as harsh even though the sentiment behind them is one of apology. "This right here, doin' this, that's me, it's what I do. Ye dinnae know me. Nae really. An' if ye stick around right now, that's prob'ly gonna change, an' trust me, neither of us want that."

Lord, why couldn't she have just disappeared before he went and screwed it up? He's always figured it was only a matter of time, but why can't he just be happy?

When it comes to matters of fight or flight, Meredith's problem is she always wants to do both, determined to stand her ground while everything in her body says go. Where that answer came from, she doesn't know, but it's not the response she expected. She's not really sure what she expected, but it wasn't this, this feeling like she's walked into the middle of an argument without knowing how she got here or what she's fighting for. For all her apparent willingness to argue, she hates confrontations; they usually end with someone walking out.

"What are you talking about?" she asks, staring, trying to ignore the way that thought alone makes her heart start hammering somewhere high in her throat. "You're not making any sense. Just come back to bed and we can do this when we're both awake."

Maybe that's all the problem is, that he's just tired and addled from letting this place catch him with all his defenses down, but it doesn't matter. "Would that I could, luv," he says blankly, but by God does he mean it. All he wants is to curl up with her and make like this little lapse in sanity never happened, but he has to shut his mind up first and he can't process anything when he can feel her eyes on him without even having to look. "I cannae pretend things're alright jus' now, though. I do it all the bloody time, but nae right now. Go back inside, an' I'll be in when I'm in."

"No," she says, not stoppng to think about it. She should listen to him. Just this once, she should be obedient, unquestioning, and ride out the storm when it comes, because it's so tempting to be the one who does all the pretending tonight. To do that, though, she'd have to ignore the way those words sting, all the confusion and hurt and worry for the both of them, and she can't do that. She can't go inside and be alone in the dark in a bed that's really his and still shake it all off like it's nothing. Even without knowing just what it is about all that that offends her, she can't pretend it doesn't. "No, I won't. You don't want to pretend? Then stop pretending and tell me what the hell is going on."

Even if he wanted to, Sean doesn't know how to make her understand, not when he barely does himself. He wishes she'd just let it go, give him that much to work with, and the fact that she refuses somehow both makes him want to drive his fist through the damn wall and makes him love her that much more for it.

"I'm nae a good person, Meredith," he says helplessly, finally looking up at her with a sigh. She wants to know so bad, fine, he'll tell her, whether she buys it or not. "Ye deserve so much better, an' usually I'm okay wi' that, 'cause we fit together so well an' we're happy, but then I woke up an' I was reminded o' everythin' that I am an' that I was 'fore I met ye an' I jus'... I cannae do it anymore. I'm done."

"Done," she echoes. For all the sense he's making right now, he might as well be speaking a foreign language, but that word, that part, Meredith gets. Or maybe she doesn't, but she understands the way it makes her ache, how it makes her afraid. They fit together like she was always missing him and she's been happier than she thought she could be here, but the rest of it, that makes no sense. Whatever he is or was, it's not less than she deserves, it's more. "Done with what? With me?"

She tries to sound as cold as he did earlier, as utterly unaffected by his words as can be, but instead she hears her voice rise and crack, throat growing tight until she's not sure she can breathe.

If it didn't hurt so much to hear, Sean would almost have to laugh at that. The day he's done with her is the day he meets his maker, and hearing her like that feels like he may as well be ripping his own heart out of his chest to speed things along. "I'm through lyin' t'ye, no more pretendin' ta be somethin' I'm nae no matter how much I wish otherwise. I'll ne'er be done with ye so long as I live, but ye should really be done wi' me." Just the fact that he'd put her through this, even with all the chances she gave him to back out and make things right, all over events now years in the past that he didn't even get to finish, should really say as much.

Meredith sinks down to sit beside him, drawn in tight towards herself. She can't let this conversation be anymore uneven than it already is and she doesn't trust her legs, not when there's that ache sitting sharp and heavy in the center of her chest, like heartbreak that's somehow not where it's supposed to be. Even his saying he's not leaving isn't much comfort right now.

"I'm not leaving you," she says, plaintive. She's not sure if she's really just this dense or that tired, but nothing about this makes any sense at all. "I don't... I don't know what's happening, I don't understand what you're talking about, lying to me. When did you lie?"

The urge to reach over and pull her close is always there, now more than ever, but Sean resists, fingertips twitching as he raps the disk against his knuckles. He's never been prone to fidgeting, but she's always been able to put him off his game, so much so that he's not even bothering to play it. "It's... I'm-" he stammers, staring down towards his feet. He doesn't want to do this, but he's backed himself into a corner and doesn't have much left in the way of choices, short of running. That she's so blindsided by this speaks volumes to him and he hates himself for that enough already without compounding it further by taking flight. "Lies of omission, I've done things that... I let ye believe I'm this man that I'm nae. An' that's who ye see when ye look at me, an' I love the way ye look at me, but it's wrong. I'm nae him. I c'n make a pretty good show of it here where there's nothin' else ta be, but ye deserve more'n that. Ye deserve someone who's actually good, nae one who might look it if'n ye dinnae have all the facts."

Meredith has the sense that she might have missed the point, mostly because all of that's just a relief. He's being honest with her, she knows he is, and it's possible that she should be more worried than she is about just what he means by all of it, but it's rare that she's felt like he wasn't being honest with her. She's been there before, buried under the certainty of her own badness, believing the people she loves deserved better. As much as she doesn't want him to feel that way, at least it's something she recognizes. It's something that can be survived.

"But it's not all pretend," she says, half pointing out the facts she does have, half just trying to be sure what they are. "You aren't pretending to care about me. Our conversations are real. The way you look at me is real. Everyone's done things, everyone leaves things out, Sean. That doesn't make it all a lie. We're still real, aren't we?"

Her words are a reassurance, but Sean fights it tooth and nail anyway, refusing to let himself believe it's that simple. "As real as we can be, I s'pose," he sighs, anger giving way to something sadder, drawing his knees up to lean forward and rest his elbows against them. All he wants right now is to be able to tell someone, tell her that he feels terrible for all of it, all those things he used to feel so justified about, like getting it out there is what it'll take to make it worth something. Why should that be so much to ask for? And why should it even matter?

"It's nae fair t'ye, though. Holdin' back. Ye should know who it is ye're dealin' with 'fore there's a we ta speak of." As long as he's believed that to be true, however, he knows as soon as it's out of his mouth that it's just another cop-out. This has nothing to do with her potentially hating him for what he did, and everything to do with the way he always, on some level, has.

"Well, it's a little late for that," Meredith says dryly. There's something frustrating about all this talk of fairness, and she's pretty sure he's not nearly as good an actor as he thinks he is. It's not like she's sat down and talked out all her myriad issues, her childhood traumas, but he still knows her. She still has the facts she needs. Being told otherwise just leaves her tense and tired, but it's hard to take that out on him when he curls in on himself like that. If he wants to insist, he can prove it. "So tell me. Give me the facts. Tell me who I'm dealing with. After all this time, you don't think I know you at least a little?"

Not enough. Sean shakes his head, running one hand through his hair, but he's not actually sure what he's saying no to. That's what he wants, isn't it? To be able to get it off his chest once and for all and find out if he deserves to be accepted in spite of it or not?

Sometimes the things that he wants completely suck.

Clenching his jaw, he tries to steel himself, get his thoughts straightened out, but he's too tired and mixed up to get very far. "I wouldnae know where ta start."

"You can't tell me I don't know who you are," Meredith says, "and then leave it there. You can't do that. Start at the beginning. Jump into the middle. Just start somewhere." It's not like she thinks he's lying now. Whatever's got him like this, he means it, she's sure enough of that. This isn't the kind of thing someone does in the middle of the night just for kicks. She just doesn't believe him, that's all. Maybe it's as much stubbornness and pride as sheer, unwavering faith, but whatever the reason, she loves him enough to think he's utterly, stupidly wrong.

Edited 2010-02-19 06:48 (UTC)

"Right, the beginnin', didnae think o' that one, thanks," Sean snaps, frustrated enough to want to scream, though he quickly glances over with a whispered "Sorry." She's already shown unimaginable patience and he doesn't need to take this out on her any more than he already has. Staring forward again, he gives a half-hearted shrug, his voice heavy with resignation and a nasty edge when he speaks again. At least he makes an effort to choose his words a little more carefully, for all the good it does. "I s'pose... the beginnin' would be the part where I abandoned me pregnant wife fer the better part of a year an' she died fer it. But that's pretty easily read in, I'd imagine, nae too big a deal." Certainly he was never a saint before, but that was probably where he first started to really go to hell.

Meredith's only so patient and even after he apologizes, her fingers rest twisted and tense in the hem of her shirt. It's harder now to pretend this is just another bad mood, something she can help him shake off and move past in due time, but it's nothing new either, not the actual fact of it. The way he says it, though, his voice and the actual phrasing, leaves her increasingly uneasy, heat rising along the back of her neck.

"Sean," she says, and then doesn't know what to follow it with. No matter what he says about how he feels for her or how bad she feels for it, it's still hard to hear him talk about Maeve, but at least she's learned better than to admit to it. "Don't... It's a big deal, I know. I know." She can't tell him again not to blame himself or say it wasn't his fault; there's no point when she knows she won't change his mind, when he's already snapping at her and making the same guilty part of her that hates talk of his wife wish that she'd gone back to bed after all.

"So we're on the same level then, that's good," Sean scoffs. Now that he's talking, it's easier to keep going, at least physically. Just because the actual words come out with less urging (only so long as he keeps from looking at her, that would be too much) doesn't make them any easier to deal with, not when he can practically feel her right there next to him, trying to do the same. Maybe this is just what always happens when good Catholic lads lapse, that need to confess the stupid things creeps up when they least expect it and swallows them whole.

"Next would prob'ly be the bit where there was one person in the entire world who could possibly understand how I was feelin' then, an' I crippled him when he tried to reach out t'me. An' that's nae a metaphor fer anythin', I shattered his leg in three places, doctors said he'd prob'ly ne'er walk right again. An' I didnae regret it fer a moment 'til I'd been here fer months and learned that that was the reason Terry grew up without a father," he says, matter-of-fact, like he's talking about the weather.

The second that faint gasp slips from her, she wants to take it back. It's not fair in a way, feeling guilty for that, when he can't expect her to be anything but shocked, when he's so casual about it that she's not even sure he wants any other reaction. She looks away, turns her head to the side, closing her eyes against all her thoughts. Grief does terrible things to people and love makes them do just as bad or worse. Love is what keeps her rationalizing, even before it's fully sunk in. She can't pretend it isn't a horrible thing to do, she's not even sure she can entirely understand it, but it's not like she didn't realize he was capable of hurting people. He's a fighter, a cop, and she's seen him lash out under better circumstances than that. Maybe that should worry her more, but she can't believe he would ever hurt her and one action doesn't make a life.

"Okay," she says slowly. Now isn't the time to argue, not if she wants to hear it all, and now that he's started, she intends to see this through. "Is there something else? Because that still doesn't change us."

It's hard not to feel relief at that, harder still to ignore the desire to just leave it there, bask in her acceptance, ignore the way that gasp seemed to cut into him, and get some sleep. But these aren't sins she can forgive, her reaction shouldn't even matter, and this isn't about what he wants. It's about what he needs, or at least what he thinks he needs in the spur of the moment. "Mostly jus' more o' the same," he says, scrunching his face up for a second and leaning back against the wall, unable or maybe just unwilling to keep faking nonchalance. Instead, he settles for a distant, far away quality, forcing himself to become detached from his words as his focus turns inward to the tightening in his chest. "Guess I c'n skip to the end, when I scrapped everythin' ta murder a teenage girl." Put like that, it sounds almost absurd to his ears, darkly comic, though he doesn't expect Meredith to agree. "Got interrupted, though."

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