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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"But not really," Meredith says softly, touching his cheek as she sits back. There's no need to pretend it's a question. Something's wrong. Whatever it is, though, it's not so intractable as she started to make herself think. She isn't about to let him sink into silence and dismiss it as nothing just because of a hug, even if she wishes it could be nothing, even if she knows she ought to get her guard up again while she can. "Are you gonna talk to me, Sean?"

Sean sighs, getting settled again and taking a long drink before he even tries to answer her. At least that's one burning feeling he can always count on to makes things better instead of worse.

"It's jus' one o' those things," he says, shaking his head and staring into the fire as he pulls the blanket closer around him. "Ye know how 'tis, jus' this place tryin' ta get t'me. An'... succeedin', I s'pose."

"You suppose." Meredith almost laughs. As if there's any doubt it's got to him. "You scared me a little out there," she says. "That's all I get, it's 'one of those things'?" She doesn't expect every last detail, not when getting him to talk can be tough on a decent day; just because she winds up blurting out almost every little thing is no reason he should have to. She deserves more than that, though, if only because she can think of about nine ways that's total crap and because she knows she'll just decide it's something horrible.

"I'm sorry," Sean says as he bows his head a bit, meaning it wholeheartedly and for a whole lot of different things, most of which he couldn't put a name to if he tried. "I didnae mean ta scare ye."

"I know you didn't," Meredith sighs. It's something, but it's not enough. She doesn't want to have to coax every bit of the story out of him, not when she's not even sure she wants to know. The frustration's creeping back in, though, and anyway, she can't leave him alone with whatever this is. "You're seriously not going to tell me anything?"

"I didnae say that," Sean says, holding back the urge to snap. The problem isn't telling her what's wrong, it's talking about this at all, because it's all something that he just doesn't talk about. "It's Maeve's, a'right? Was."

Jaw set, Meredith looks away. It's not exactly surprising after this much time left with just her imagination to figure it out, but that doesn't make it hurt less (she always feels guilty for that. What right does she have to be upset by something like that?). "Alright," she says. There's really nothing else she can say. It's his wife's. Suddenly she's not really sure why she thought she'd ever get to call herself that.

Sean's prepared to leave it at that, if only it were that simple. She wanted an answer and she got one, there's nothing left to say, but the silence that follows feels more oppressive than the tension from before he spoke, and he finds himself needing to fill it with something, anything to keep from going back to that.

"She loved that damn bike."

Meredith wants to say she doesn't give a damn what Maeve did or didn't love. She doesn't want to know about her, not anything, though the not knowing makes it easier to imagine she was utterly perfect in every way. It's better if she stays a blank. Instead she makes a noise, some hum of agreement, blank herself. "Couldn't just leave it," she says. "Right." That seems blatantly unfair after the way he acted about the stupid ring she found, but she doesn't want to think about that either, about any of it, about anything.

Sean grits his teeth and takes another long drink, nearly draining it. It's a lousy, unsatisfying response, but he's not sure what he was expecting or even what he wants, so it's not as if it makes much of a difference. "Should I jus' nae have said anythin'?"

"No," Meredith says, "no, I asked. I wanted to know. Something was wrong, I wanted to know." She wants him to be able to come to her with anything, but that doesn't mean she can handle it. It makes her sick, a sharp, physical pull in her chest, as the old feelings of inadequacy make themselves known again, actual heartache cutting her breathing short. It shouldn't be this easy to feel this horrible over so little so quickly.

"Well, ye obviously don't now," Sean says as he finishes his drink, unsure as to why he should be so bitter about this when he didn't want to say anything in the first place, when she's been nothing but good to him. It's not until he manages to pin his sudden terseness on this feeling like a dam about to burst just past his lips does he get it. He wants to talk.

"What else is there to know?" Meredith asks, looking over at him. "It belonged to your wife, you had to save it because she loved it. It is what it is." No amount of flippancy really serves to make her feel any better about saying it. All she can think, true or not, is he wouldn't be here if Maeve were alive, he wouldn't have so much as kissed her, let alone ever have loved her, and she feels like she might actually choke on it. Everything she has depends on her being a replacement for the dead and she can't even hate him for it.

His grip tightening around the glass, Sean draws in on himself, pulling his knees up to his chest and telling himself it's only because it's warmer that way. "It is what it is," he echoes, trying to keep his voice as even as he can, since things letting things like hurt and anger slip out will only make this worse. He's been so consumed by his own grief, he hasn't let himself think about how hard this must be for her. Even now, he doesn't know if it will make much of a difference in how he feels.

Most of the time, Meredith can forget. It's almost complete, the idea that she's okay with it all, that it doesn't bother her he's still so clearly in love with his wife. She doesn't think about it, so she's okay, but now it's in her yard and on his face and she can't think about anything else. What is she doing here? Clenching her teeth, she glances down again, nodding. "Yeah," she says, then, struggling to keep her voice from cracking if nothing else, she blurts out, "Sorry. I'm sorry. I know that's... it must be... terrible. The reminder. Really, I... Of course you can't just leave it, I get it."

Sean has to look away, unable to deal with the way she looks and sounds as he awkwardly rests his cheek against his knees and gives a vague noise of assent. She doesn't even know the half of it. "Merry bloody Christmas."

"Don't," Meredith snaps, shaking her head. She doesn't really know what she's saying, though. It's not like his not commenting would make the holiday any less ruined. If she could be angry, this would be easier, but he has more right to be upset about all this than she does by far. How else is he supposed to behave? She knew what she was getting into almost from the beginning. She should have, anyway. "Just don't. You can tell me about it, you can — you can tell me whatever, if you want, I'll listen, but I don't know what you want me to say here."

"Neither do I," Sean sighs, quiet and chastised in a way he doesn't generally let himself get. He wants her to actually make him believe he can tell her anything, because for maybe the first time, his self-imposed avoidance of this doesn't feel like second nature, something automatic and obvious. It's like a weight pressing down on him or a clamp over his mouth, stifling and silencing him. "It wasnae s'posed ta be like this," he adds, closing his eyes as tight as he can, because if he's going to cry, it's not going to be now, it's going to be at a time and place of his choosing where he won't have to worry about making her feel horrible on top of everything else.

Even so, Meredith flinches. It takes conscious effort and a lot of it to make her stay where she is, frozen in mid-flight at those words. Of course it wasn't. The night wasn't supposed to be like this and his life wasn't supposed to be like this, shared with her. It's never supposed to be like this, but this is what they have and she hates how she can be so sure of him, so certain, most of the time and still have it all taken out from under her so easily. She hates the way it turns her skittish, how she can't decide if she wants to scream or cry or leave and say nothing at all, how she wants him to tell her she's wrong and knows she can't believe it anyway because it's so simple, so true. It wasn't supposed to be like this, and if things were the way they'd been meant to be, he'd never have loved her at all. "You didn't choose it," she says, and it means a dozen different things, though she only really intends comfort, however stiffly offered. "You didn't ask for it to turn up. It's okay." It really isn't.

It's not okay at all, but Sean's silence serves as a decent enough statement of that as anything else and he eventually sits back up, staring into the fire again. "What'm I goin' ta do with it?"

Meredith hopes fervently he'll just get rid of it, even after that whole charade of dragging it back, but she doesn't believe for a second that he will. She should go, she should leave, but nothing's changed in a year. Being second-best is still better than anything else she's ever had. "I don't know," she says. "It's a wreck, what can you do with it?"

"Nae much," Sean morosely admits, but he can't just leave it at that. "M-maybe I could rebuild it? Ye know, see what sort o' parts that scrapyard has layin' 'round. Or... or somethin'."

"You could," Meredith says, suddenly casual, even blasé, and on her feet before she realizes she's moving. It's not even upsetting anymore. She's crossed right over into it being too much to handle, numbed by the ache as she heads for their room. This is what shock is for, the body taking over when it should be unbearable. "I'm getting a drink."

Sean feels a pang as she gets up and walks away, but he's not entirely sure why. It's not as if he can't relate to the urge. "Could ye top me up, too?" he calls after her.

Meredith doesn't answer. She doesn't know if her voice will stand for it now or if she'll just wind up yelling at him and she doesn't want to, not right now. She needs a moment alone, leaning against the wall with her eyes closed, trying not to think. Breathing slowly in and out, she just wants some quiet in her head, a chance to try and keep these things from making her any crazier than they already have so she can remind herself again that he loves her. She gets herself a drink. She doesn't come out.

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