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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"It's okay," Meredith says, shaking her head. It isn't exactly. It's still awkward and unsettling, but she gets it to some degree and she's starting to think this isn't entirely his fault anyway. He's never tried to do this to her, it just happens. "It's okay. I just... I think I need to stop thinking of her as your wife. I don't think of her as someone dead or — or someone real, I — she's your wife. Present tense. Like she could just walk in and take my home away. Not, not, not literally, but — I think of her like that and I feel like the mistress."

Sucking in a sharp breath as he lets that sink in, Sean just frowns and nods, looking away. "Do what ye need to," he says, and while it comes out sounding cold, that's got nothing to do with her. Forcing himself to stop it and keep from closing off comes with the unfortunate side effect of tears pricking at his eyes again, but he soldiers on regardless and hopes his voice can hold out. "It, it's okay, ye're right. I havenae worn a ring on me finger in almost two years, Meredith. I'm nae married. I... I don't have a wife, I have a memory."

"I'm sorry," Meredith says, reaching up to cup his face in her hand again. It's strange, she thinks, how difficult it is to absorb what he's saying. She knows it's true, she's thankful to know it, but it still feels removed from her except for the part where she can see she's hurt him again. "I know. It's not your fault I think that way, it's me. I know it's hard for you already. I don't want to make this worse, I just... don't want to not say things to you."

"No, no," Sean says immediately, full-on crying again as he shakes his head vehemently. "I- I dinnae want that either, but I ne'er want ye ta feel like ye need to be holdin' yer tongue. That doesnae mean that it'll all be easy t'hear, but... ye're only tellin' the truth, anyhow."

"It's not like it's all the time," Meredith says, stricken, starting to babble, "or even most of the time, it's just when I think about it and I don't usually, I don't feel anything like that usually, it's... It's good, okay? This is good. I need to know what's wrong before I can fix it and now I know." Not that that's ever really helped her before, but she's getting better about it, she thinks. This, though, seeing him like this, she never gets any better equipped for.

Sean pulls her tight against him again all in a rush, trying and failing to reign himself in as his breath hitches almost painfully in his chest. "H-how is any o' this okay?" he asks, knowing that it's just the night and all his frustrations making him feel this way, small and lonely and impotent, but unable to stop it either way.

Meredith hushes him, arms wrapping around him as she presses a kiss to his hair, desperate for some way to fix this and knowing she can't, not really. She might make it a little better in the here and now, but it's not enough. "It is," she says, quiet but firm. "It is and we are. We're talking about it, right? We aren't keeping quiet or ignoring it, ignoring her, we're — we're taking care of it, we're talking about it, we're here. We didn't — you didn't leave. I didn't run that far. This is good. I mean, it isn't, it's awful, but it's, it's still good, right?"

"Good," Sean repeats blankly, not buying it for an instant but hoping the repetition might get it to stick in his head some. "It's good, it's good, it's... God, it ne'er used to hurt this bad." Maybe because, with the memory of the ring he'd picked out and the spiel he'd prepared burning holes in his mind, he's mourning his future with Meredith fully as much as his past with Maeve, whether that's necessary or not.

"What?" Meredith draws back to stare at him before she can help it, before she can try to pull the stoic and supportive routine again, and she's sorry for it the second she does. She keeps making this about herself and, for once, she can't ignore that, but she can't control how hard it keeps hitting her either, all the doubt and insecurity and the sense that she only makes things worse.

"I don't- I don't know," Sean says in some half-hearted attempt at damage control. The last thing he needs is to go about making her feel even worse when she's all that's keeping him together, when that's been the case for months now. "It's the talkin', an' it's Christmas, an' it's, it jus' hurts. Tonight, it's jus'... it's bad, is all."

Meredith keeps her mouth shut, nodding slowly once, until she can trust her voice to work right. It still feels like something gripping her heart, a sharp ache, and it's all too easy to jump at every imagined slight and self-perceived shortcoming. "Should we not talk?" she asks. "About... about this? I thought you wanted to or we should or — we don't have to. Or it can wait until it's less... like this."

"No, no, it's... I don't know," Sean says, repeating himself and feeling like a prize jerk in the process. "I think it's less 'bout wantin' to an' more that I cannae help it. An' anyway, this is prob'ly good, we should, it should hurt, it jus'... feels like too much. Tonight was s'posed to be simple."

"It does," Meredith says, biting her lip as she nods. It shouldn't hurt like this, she thinks, but then, she isn't sure; what would she know about any of this? Maybe it should. It's still too much, still overwhelming, and their quiet evening on the beach seems like it happened weeks ago. "Simple would've been nice. But we have this. And whatever you need to say, you need to say."

Sean nods, reaching up to wipe roughly at his eyes. She's right, of course, but that's never made things he doesn't like any easier to bear. "I hate this place sometimes. I really do."

"I know," Meredith murmurs, "so do I. But we would've had to deal with it eventually, Sean. No matter where we are." She could have gone on for ages ignoring the twinges of jealousy, but it's probably better for him. She has to hope it is, anyway, that there's a silver lining in this somewhere. "Better now than tomorrow, I guess."

"Ye think so, do ye?" Sean asks wryly, though she's probably right about that, too. Better no engagement than a ruined one. Either way, that's a subject he needs to move away from as quickly as possible. "Cannae believe it's been three years since I've seen her face."

Meredith nods absently, taking a deep breath, steeling herself against this. He needs to talk. She probably needs to hear it if she's ever going to get over this, needs to focus on this being his past and Maeve's just being an ordinary woman, however perfect for him. That doesn't make it any easier, but she can't keep derailing him. It doesn't make it hurt any less anyway. "That's longer even than I've been here," she says, mostly to herself. Every day they've known each other he's been missing someone else, but didn't she know that almost from the beginning?

"Feels like a blessed eternity, doesn't it?" Sean asks, not entirely sure what point he's trying to make or if he's just carrying on for the sake of it. Either way, it pulls at his chest like a physical thing, but at least he's successfully moved away from dwelling on his aborted proposal.

That and not nearly long enough, but Meredith doesn't say so. It's not a matter of holding her tongue so much as it is one of being so tired, what energy she has focused on the constant stream of reminders to herself. She wouldn't know the right thing to say even if she weren't feeling so worn down. Shifting to tuck her head against his shoulder, she sighs. "Yeah. Like forever."

"An' still like the blink of an eye," Sean continues, his voice oddly flat as he tips his head to rest lightly against hers, rubbing his hands slowly along her back.

Meredith makes a sound of agreement, closing her eyes. "I don't know where it all went," she murmurs, letting herself relax, at least trying to. Now that they're talking, she wants to ask questions, but she isn't sure they're ready for that, either of them.

"It scares me," Sean confesses, nearly hating that one most of all as his voice drops back down to a hush. "How long it's been, how fast it's all gone by."

It scares her, too, but her reasons are different, Meredith knows. She can't quite understand where he's coming from, but she knows it's something else. "It's always like that," she says. "It seems like it's dragging and then, before you know it, it's been years."

"Aye," Sean replies, fingers pressing gently into the muscles in her back just for something else to focus on. "That was the worst part, I think, 'bout findin' out when I... ye know. It was hard enae tryin' t'imagine the rest o' me life without her, but puttin' a number on it jus' makes it seem impossibly long."

"Three years," Meredith says, testing it out for him, and she can't imagine it. Her fingers move absently through his hair. She tries, whether out of empathy or masochism, tries to apply it to them and a lifetime without him, but it's overwhelming to think about still and she's too easily hurt tonight. She focuses on little things: his hands against her back, her own steady breathing, the past tense. "I don't know how you did it. I don't think I could."

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