missingthekeep | Item Post [for Meredith]

Entry tags:

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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."

"Why?" It comes out without pause, but there's plenty of hesitation, her throat tight. There is a reason. Through the ringing in her ears and the way her stomach lurches at those words, she tells herself there's a reason, that he wouldn't have done that without one. Then she tells herself that's how women end up in serious trouble, coming up with excuses for everything their boyfriends do wrong when there are no real excuses to be had. Maybe he's right, maybe she doesn't know. That doesn't make sense, though. None of this makes sense. Whatever he thinks to the contrary, whatever he's left out, she has to believe she knows him well enough to know there's a reason. Her head's gone light, though, and she can't think past her racing pulse; she can't pretend that this isn't different. Voice rising, she turns her head to look back at him, wide-eyed, searching his expression for something to make her understand. "Why did — why would you do that?"

Sean looks over at her for a split second, and it proves to be one of his biggest mistakes of the night, which is saying something. If anything is going to prove to be his undoing here, make him finally crack, it's the look he finds in her eyes, cutting through the darkness. Shifting his gaze immediately down to the ground, something like fear making his heart leap into his throat, he struggles for an answer to what is essentially a really simple question. Hell, a year ago, he could have written whole books about why he'd done it, and now it seems that the task of finding a way to sum it up leaves him short of breath.

"I- revenge, I s'pose," he mumbles after a moment, feeling more lost than ever. "She hurt me. Bad. She was the reason I wasnae-" and here he cuts himself off, shaking his head vigorously. Is that it? She hurt him? She hurt him at a very inopportune time? Was he honestly about to kill someone over a matter that petty?

"No good reason," he finally admits, staring sadly at the disk in his hand like that's going to magically imbue it with meaning. It may have provided a decent excuse for his actions back home to his superiors, but here it's no help at all. "I jus' wanted blood."

It's not like she's been a saint herself. Meredith's hurt a lot of people in her time, both intentionally and otherwise, and she's taken her troubles out on everyone else, lashed out when she shouldn't have. She's made mistakes and she's trying hard to see it like that, but it's not the same, not really. Looking down at the ground between them, she just sits there, not knowing what to say or think or feel, everything inside her painfully heavy. What is she supposed to say? She wants to believe he wouldn't really have done it if he'd been allowed to go on with it, but the hard fact is, she honestly doesn't know. He seems so sure of it and all that guilt isn't proof he's wrong.

She shakes her head, tiny, sharp, contained movements as she hunches forward against herself, trying to say something and not knowing what. "Just —" Stopping again, she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. He knows that's not a reason, he already said so. Even so, she can't just sit here, wondering, and it's too late to turn back now. "A teenage girl," she says, a little strangled. "So what stopped you? Why didn't you do it?"

Sean's long since stopped thinking of Romanova as a girl of her years, mostly out of necessity and knowledge of what she's all capable of. He'd very nearly stopped thinking of her as human for a while, but Meredith's reaction puts the scope of his actions into stunning clarity. The knowledge that he may have actually killed an innocent man while he was at it doesn't help any, and though he's heard enough from Wolverine to know that he didn't wind up going through with it either way, that wasn't actually him. Not yet, anyway.

He can't do this. He doesn't know why he ever thought he could. 'It had to happen eventually' just isn't reason enough, and he wants to get up and run, wants her to get up and run from this. Except for the part where he is genuinely afraid of what's going to become of him if he loses her. If nothing else, that's what keeps him there, bare back to the wall.

Gritting his teeth, he looks over at her against his better judgment and holds his breath. If this is it, the one thing that ends everything, then there's nothing he can do about it beyond facing it head on. "I met you."

It doesn't add up. Meredith remembers that day and the state he was in, and something in her says she would have known, like that makes any sense at all, like she can look at someone and just tell if they're about to commit a murder. That doesn't seem right either. It's not a word that should have anything to do with him.

Looking over her shoulder at him, she waits to see if something changes, waits for disgust or fear to hit, but all she really wants is for him to hold her until this fixes itself or she finds some way to put it right. "So when you showed up here," she says, "when I was treating you... you were... But you didn't do it. You didn't kill her." The intention was there, though, and she's not entirely sure how to reconcile herself to that. The more she thinks about it, the less she believes he could have done it, but her mind's still spinning to keep up. "Was that what happened to your throat?" She has to tighten her hands into fists to keep from reaching out to trace her fingers over where the burn once was.

It's nearly impossible to keep his eyes on her and not flinch away, but somehow Sean manages, taking a deep but stilted breath as he gives a tiny nod. She's never going to look at him the same way again, but maybe that's how it should be. It's what he deserves, certainly. Really, it's a wonder that he got away with so much for so long. "Got hit with the business end of a weapon worn 'round a wrist e'en skinnier'n yers," he says, disgusted with himself but also resigned to it.

Meredith closes her eyes at that, but somehow it's a relief, just knowing the girl was armed, that she was fighting. It's still horrifying, but it helps that he's not the only one who was playing for keeps, even if she still hates thinking of him hurt. With him looking at her, it's so hard to think about this clearly, so hard not to say she needs to go, she needs time to think about this. She doesn't need time, at least, not somewhere else, not alone. There's really only one thing she wants to ask and she's not sure if the answer will change anything anyway. "Would you really have done it?" she asks. "If you hadn't met me instead?"

Sean swallows thickly as he lets that sink in. Sure, he knows he would have supposedly been stopped somehow, but that's not what she's asking. She's asking a question that he's asked himself countless times over the past year of his life, although he's not sure when the answer changed all the way from 'of course' to 'God, I hope not'. He figures he can guess what answer she's looking for, but he's dug his grave this night with nothing but honesty, he can't just stop now. Sighing, he tips his head down a bit, still keeping his eyes trained on her, trying to read her through all these conflicting emotions. "I don't know," he says, quiet and drawn out, his throat feeling tight.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject