missingthekeep | Christmas Eve [for Meredith]

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Christmas Eve [for Meredith]

Sean's so nervous, he thinks he might pass out. He was expecting to be nervous, of course, he was anxious as sin the last time he tried something as insane as this with the last woman to cross his path, but this... this really goes above and beyond. Fortunately, in the years since his last proposal of marriage, he's gotten a hell of a lot better at hiding how nervous he is, so the only outward show of it he allows is some fidgeting with the ring in his jacket pocket. It doesn't help much.

It's a good ring, he thinks. Fancy and pretty without overdoing it. He'll want something a little more personal than what he could scrounge from the Pond woman's stash for the final things, but as an engagement ring, it does nicely. Would that he were so confident about the rest of this, especially when he has every reason to be. This isn't about how lousy everything else in his life is right now, this is about him and Meredith, nothing else. And they're good. They're better than good, occasional hiccups aside. He wants this, she wants this, and they're great, they're solid. How could this possibly be the wrong thing to do, the wrong time to do it?

It isn't, he tells himself for the thirtieth time. Besides, it's already been weeks since she told him she was ready, that she was finally and fully ready to marry him. How much longer does he really have?

Right.

Right.

"Nice night, innit?" he asks with a smile, trying to keep up the charade that he dragged her out to the snow-covered beach for nothing more than a walk on Christmas Eve as long as he's able.

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He's just lucky Meredith likes this kind of thing — more, in fact, in the brief winter they get than she does on those mild, humid nights they see the rest of the year. She nods, content to trudge along with her hands swinging at her sides as she kicks up the snow. There won't be much more of this. Another week, maybe two and it'll be back to life as usual, if the previous years are anything to judge by, and she's sorry for that. Maybe it's just that she's been feeling better in general these last few weeks, but it's like she's happier when the cold weather rolls around.

"Yeah," she says, deliberately huffing out air after to see her breath, smile turning into a grin. "You know, I think it's actually prettier out here with the snow than the sand."

"Ye do look good in white," Sean says fondly, but that's far too unsubtle a seque (or maybe he's just looking for excuses), so he continues to hedge, dragging things out for a little longer before the main event. "But aye, ye're right. Always seems like it's only here for the blink of an eye, though." As fleeting as any other moments of happiness, really.

"Not nearly long enough," Meredith sighs, but she's enjoying herself too much to sound particularly upset by that. Besides, she's a little more used to all that sun these days, even if she still doesn't like it as much. She sways as she walks, nudging him with her hip, though she looks down ahead of her for a moment longer. "You know, it kind of always reminds me of that day — the first time you kissed me? Although this is much, much nicer than a blizzard."

"Much," Sean agrees, huffing out a laugh, and the sentiment would likely go a long way toward putting him at ease if it didn't also happen to bring with it the realization that this is about as good an opening as there is. "That's a hell of a thing ta be reminded of, though." Back when things were new and dangerous, terrifying and glorious. In a lot of ways, the only part of that that's changed is the 'new'.

Here's to another game-changer, boyo. Deep breaths, now.

"Ye know, Meredith, there was actually somethin' I was wantin' ta... what was that?" He knows it's terrible, getting distracted at a moment like this by something as insignificant as a gleam of moonlight on metal out in the water, but he's too edgy to be able to help it, automatically turning to get a better look.

"Hm?" Meredith cranes forward to get a better look, too. "I don't know," she says, "something in the water." Around here, that could mean just about anything, and though that generally slants toward the bad and though she wants to know what it is he has to say, her curiosity's enough to get her wavering. Whatever it is, it's not small. She takes a couple steps toward the ocean, glancing over at him. "Should we look? Or... you were saying something."

What he was saying is going to have to wait, because as he gives Meredith a non-committal noise and moves to the ocean's edge, his nervousness turns into a vague feeling of unease down in his gut, one borne of a familiarity that he can't yet place. He can pick out a rough shape in the water and he knows he's looking at a motorcycle, but something's off, parts are skewed or in the wrong spots. A mangled motorcycle, then, and from there it's only another second before it clicks, before he realizes why it seems so familiar. Not because he's seen it all that much before, but because of all that he heard about it after the fact.

"Saints preserve us," he whispers, caught for breath, and the next thing he knows is the shock of frigid water spilling over his boots and rushing around his legs as he wades out into the ocean just as the bike slips beneath the waves.

"Sean!" Her feet stick and Meredith doesn't care. She isn't about to follow him out into the water, not when it's bound to be dangerously cold, and even if she were crazy enough to do that, his behavior is enough to tell her something's wrong. Maybe that should be reason enough for her to go after him and make sure he's alright, but it keeps her waiting on shore instead, clinging to another few moments of ignorance. Sometimes it's better being in the dark. "Come on, get out of there," she says. "You're going to make yourself sick."

Getting sick is about the least of Sean's concerns right now, and he doesn't have it in him to answer her as he pushes forward, fighting for every step as the water weighs down his jeans, tries to drag him back. It's up around his thighs by the time he walks into the motorcycle, barely feeling it past the cold. He has to bend over to reach under the surface and haul it back up just to make it visible again, further soaking himself in the process, but it doesn't matter. He's a million miles away from his body the instant he can see it for himself, polished chrome and custom grips, all the things Maeve never let him live down after she lost it saving his skin. He knows that he should start moving back to shore before he loses all the feeling in his limbs, but he's caught in place, trying to wrap his mind around this and whatever it is he's supposed to do now.

Meredith's not sure how long she stands there in silence, letting him stay in the water unimpeded. When things go wrong for them, they usually go very, very wrong, and she's been doing so well. She's been so much better — and better is no guarantee that she'll stay okay, that she can take whatever this is that's come along to disturb her hard-earned peace. If that's unbearably selfish, she's doing her damnedest to bear it all the same. There's only so long she can leave him to this, though. "Sean," she says again finally, "what are you doing? Can you please just come back up here already?"

Sean spares a quick, wide-eyed glance over his shoulder at her, just a dark figure on the beach, before he turns back to the bike, nodding to himself. "Right," he whispers absently, still trying to take stock of it all. She's what matters. Meredith is what matters. Get back to Meredith. Right?

"I-I'm comin'," he finally calls back, his voice suddenly rough. Much of the cold below his waist has faded away, leaving only sharp, stabbing pain all down his legs, and he winces as he forces himself to turn, dragging the motorcycle along with him. Damned if he's about to leave it out there, after all.

As he pulls that wreck up out of the water, for the first time in a long while, Meredith wants to bolt. She knows better than to hope it's something good; this isn't a man moved by a childhood memory or something equally cloying. Leaving isn't an option, though. She stands her ground, waiting, wary, trying to stop these thoughts in their tracks. There's no good in overanalyzing everything before she has any idea what's happening. There's never any good in it, but she should at least have something more to go on. "What were you thinking?" she asks. Scolding seems like the best form of concern suddenly. "It's freezing out there. We should get inside and get you dry."

There's not a whole lot of it left, parts are missing wholesale, the engine is well and truly gutted, and the whole thing is nearly folded in on itself, which actually serves to make it a little easier to drag back to shore, but it's still mighty slow going. The metal feels colder underneath his hands than even the freezing water does and the only confirmation he has that his feet are actually doing what he wants them to is his continued forward momentum, but slowly, he trudges back with the mass of metal clutched as closely as he can keep it.

"I had- it was gettin' pulled out t'sea, I had t'go get it," he says, quiet and shaky. He hadn't even noticed that he's been shivering, and for one brief, horrible moment when he finally makes it out of the water, his legs nearly go out from under him. Yes, getting bitched at right now is exactly what he needs.

Meredith reaches out to steady him, though she half-wants to shake him instead. "You didn't have to," she says, though for all she knows, he did. It's not a dog, though, not a creature he's obligated to care for. It's a broken motorcycle, barely recognizable until he's got it out of the water, almost too mangled even then, and whatever it means, she doesn't want it coming home with her. If he just had to go and get it, though, she doubts that's an argument she'll win. "You're seriously going to drag it all the way back? It's yours?"

Sean shakes his head, though at which part of all that, he's not entirely sure. He tries to look up at her but finds that he can't bring himself to meet her eyes so he looks away again, dropping into a crouch as he tries to catch his breath. God, even breathing hurts, and all he can say in reply is "It's nae mine. I cannae jus' leave it here."

Whomever it belongs to, Meredith dislikes it instinctively for upsetting him and for the high probability it'll upset her, too, though she's already counterintuitively annoyed with him for that as well. She looks down at him for a long moment, until concern narrowly outweighs irritation and she eases down to the ground beside him. "Then let me help," she says, resisting the urge to pull off a glove and check his pulse instead. The signs aren't great, but it's not like he was out there that long either. "Take a moment. Breathe. And then we're going inside, alright?"

Sean nods even though he doesn't really want to do any of those things. Breathing hurts, taking a moment means staying out here that much longer, going inside means having to face it all head on. Letting her help means... he's not sure what that means. So he just nods, trying to find his voice again as the cold finally catches up to him, hitting him hard. "I cannae leave it," he says, feeling daft for repeating himself, but getting the urge to nonetheless. He forces himself to his feet a moment later, wincing again at the scrape of wet clothes on his burning skin as he tries to find a way to carry the thing. "Let's go, then."

The more he says it, the more she wishes he would, but Meredith gets up all the same, not sure what to do with her hands. She actually doesn't want to touch it — she's not sure he'll even let her — but she can't let him carry it alone either. Watching him for signs of physical trouble is easier to wrap her mind around for now, a way to calm herself if only by virtue of giving her something else to focus on. "Okay," she says, slipping an arm around his waist and reaching tentatively for the end nearest her. "Got it?"

Sean almost, almost tells her not to touch it, but recognizes how insane that sounds in time and bites his tongue. "Aye," he nods, still struggling for breath but dealing with it as he stubbornly sets off with her. "'M good." An idiot could see that he's anything but, of course, but now he's got a goal to work towards, something tangible that he can dig in his heels and play through the pain in order to get to. Just get home. They can worry about the rest of it later.

It's almost insulting, really, when a blind stranger could see he's not good right now, but Meredith just bristles and leaves it at that. Focused on getting home, she's more intent on making sure he's alright walking than helping with the damn bike, doing her best to ignore the frustration and the dimmer hurt she refuses to nurse right now. The immediate physical need for support takes precedence and she can be mad later. "Are your legs okay?"

"Fine," Sean brusquely replies, since she's not the only one who he feels like he needs to convince right now. As long as he keeps putting one foot in front of the other, he'll be alright, but that seems like some Herculean task at the moment and he has to relent at least a little. "Cold."

"Well, you would think so," Meredith says, watching the path. She hates this part of love, the way her already changeable moods are so much at the mercy of someone else's; that good cheer's come crashing to a halt, but she keeps going. Even in its mangled state, missing pieces, the motorcycle's heavy, one more reason to wish they hadn't come this way at this time. The time and place don't really matter, though, she knows. These things happen one way or another regardless. "At least it's not too far."

"Small favours," Sean mutters, and while he wants to speak as little as possible right now, it's probably a smart idea to at least try, to keep himself from retreating entirely into his own head until they're home. It's hard enough keeping himself from constantly adjusting his grip on the thing, knowing full well that it's going to do nothing to lessen the sting of frigid metal under his hands. "Blizzard's got nothin' on this, though."

It's Meredith's turn to be silent, unsure how to reply. She always hates not knowing what to say to him. It's rare enough to feel like another personal affront. She might be holding onto not knowing now — it's not the place for asking questions, out here and on the move — but she'll push until she gets an answer later, because the not knowing makes her resent everything. It eats away at her nerves and wears her out. She pulls her arm away to hold on with both hands. "Only because you got all wet," she says, more tired than anything else. "At least we can see."

Sean doesn't reply, because bringing up the blizzard has managed to make him remember what he came out here for in the first place for the first time since he figured out what was in the water. Now he does change his grip on the bike, slowing his pace and shifting to free up one hand so he can frantically scrabble at his pocket for a moment, his expression deceptively level.

The ring's gone.

It's impossible to miss that something's up, though at least it seems less like trouble. Meredith almost asks if everything's okay, but it isn't and she's a lot of things, but dumb enough to actually ask that isn't one of them. "What is it?" she asks instead, leaning forward a little to look at him as she walks.

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