Sean Cassidy

He's a fool. He's the biggest bloody fool there's ever been and he somehow never even saw it.

Sean had driven home in a bit of a daze after ending things with Meredith. Had he regretted it? Hard to say. He regretted having to do it, certainly, but he needed to stay firm in his resolve. It was the right thing. He couldn't regret doing the right thing.

And then it hit him. Not anything vehicular, although with the distracted way he was driving his new rig, he would probably have it coming to him. No, it was the sudden onslaught of missing memories that he hadn't even realized were missing and yeah, he then understood just why Meredith was so out of it on that day with the lion.

But no. Onslaught was the wrong word. Years of memories constituted a whole lot of experiences, but there was no sudden flash of a past life coming upon him, no bombardment of unfamiliar images. They just slipped into his mind right where they always belonged, quiet and unobtrusive. One moment, Sean was turning away from the road home, thinking that he had instead earned himself a bit of a cruise through the countryside to settle his spirits some. The next, he was slamming on the brakes, acutely aware that he'd just walked out on his wife.

The specific moments all felt distant, a little faded with the passage of time, but they nevertheless stuck out starkly in his memory by simple virtue of his being unused to them being there at all, and it was almost more than he could bear to deal with them.

Fortunately, he wasn't about to even try just yet. He had more important things to do.

Pulling hurriedly to the side of the road before he did end up smashing into something in his distraction, Sean pocketed his keys and hopped out to make sure nobody was near enough on that particular stretch of the road out of town before opening his mouth and taking to the skies. Driving was far too slow given how vital his business was, anyway.

Which brings him to now, carefully dropping out of the (brutally cold, for the record) cloud cover to touch roughly down in an alley behind the apartment he quit all of half an hour ago and running out like a madman. Every extra second he wastes, leaving her to simply try getting over him, is nigh unforgivable.

Sean takes the steps up to Meredith's apartment three at a time, not bothering to think about what he's going to say this time before he starts hammering at the door, the biggest fool in the whole damned universe.

She's going to kill him. If this works, she is absolutely going to kill him and he knows it.

Sean mills around outside with Doc for several minutes before he finally commits to the idea, because it truly is a terrible one, but in the end, the experience of having been out and about for going on three hours now while Meredith remains in bed get to him enough to send him inside.

"Meredith, quick, get up," he says, his voice urgent and forceful as he barges into their bedroom. "Get up, get dressed."

She's going to kill him.

But first she's going to work for it.

There's the alternative.

Her words follow him like a shadow, settling into his skin so he can't shake them, stifling his anger until all he's left with is a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

There's the alternative.

She took her ring off. All they've been through, all they've done, and this is what might end them? All those tragedies just couldn't compare to a bit of drinking? It's ridiculous, and infuriating, and he hasn't the slightest idea what to do to even begin to fix things. This one isn't on him.

He has to go back to her. That much is obvious. But to what end? They'll just pick up right where they left off, an eventuality that he ducked out specifically to avoid. He'll give it some time, then, let her dwell on what she's done while he does the same. They'll survive this. They have to. He considers heading out to grab a drink, even gets his flask topped up for the evening, but Meredith's rantings have soured him on the idea for the time being, no matter how desperately he needs one.

There's the alternative.

That's when it occurs to him: if she thinks his drinking is such a terrible problem, worthy of jeopardizing their happiness (or whatever it is that they've had lately) over, then he'll just prove to her that it isn't. Simple as that. He'll sober up properly -- which shouldn't take too long, since he hasn't even gotten a real start on things today -- and then they can discuss things like rational adults. Problem solved.

There's the alternative.

He doesn't even make it a day.

He's mostly alright until night falls, at which point the pain behind his eyes becomes nigh-unbearable. He retires to his old hut on instinct, though stripped and bare as it is, it's hardly a decent accommodation. Where else is he supposed to go, though? Really, he's just lucky that someone else hasn't taken up residence. Between the headache and the cut on his back keeping him stuck on his side and his stomach, it's damn near impossible to sleep, but somehow he manages to lose consciousness long after midnight only to be woken up scant hours later, sweating and needing to retch as the sun comes up. Considering he hasn't eaten anything in days, this proves to be a particularly painful prospect, and he goes for his flask without thinking about it, just another instinct.

He can't decide if the few decent hours of sleep it earns him are worth the way he wakes up in the afternoon, hating himself.

There's the alternative.

That second night, he makes up his mind. It was absolutely worth it. He'd accomplished so much that day, getting out and showering, putting some actual food in him, but his pointed decision not to get himself a refill proves to be a mistake as he spends the night tossing in an absurdly uncomfortable bed, at once sweating and entirely unable to shake the chill that grips him. But hey, at least there are no blankets, so it's not as if he has to make a decision on the matter. None of his bruises or cuts seem to be healing properly, and he aches worse than he did back when he'd been in Rapture, right in the thick of it. He's still awake when the sun rises on another day spent cursing his own stubbornness, ending yet another night too many spent alone. He wants so badly to give up, to go back to her and try to pretend none of this happened, but after the things she said, the way she treated him, it's just not an option.

There's the alternative.

It's just the world's worst hangover. That's what he tells himself over and over as he forces himself out and about, carefully keeping track of the time to avoid Meredith as he forces himself to head back out into that impossibly bright sun to choke down more food that he likely won't taste until the second time around. He spent a full week down in that hellhole, drinking far more than even he would be able to justify under normal conditions and putting God knows what sort of insane chemicals into his body just to stay alive, this sort of thing is to be expected. He can't live like this, but he doesn't have to, he just needs to ride it out so he can prove some ridiculous point that he barely remembers, and that will be that. Really, it doesn't even have anything to do with his previous situation, which somehow proves to him that Meredith is even more in the wrong about all this.

Soon she'll be able to see so for herself.

All that's left to do is pray that it makes a difference.

There's the alternative.

He's still trying to fall asleep, sweat pouring off of him worse than ever, when he hears Meredith's voice. He's lost all track of how many days it's been in his stupor, and he's convinced that it's the first time in weeks that he's heard her, so thrown that he doesn't even register what it is that she says. Then he's coming to his senses, remembering just how he alone he truly is, and writing the sound off as nothing more than the scraps of some mad dream as he was finally slipping into blessed unconsciousness.

Hers isn't the only voice he hears that night, but it's the only one he remembers, and when he sets out again in the morning, he makes a vow that he's not coming back again.

There's the alternative.

Finally, finally, he seems to find himself capable of functioning like a normal human being once more. He still feels as if he's got one foot in the grave, but his breakfast seems inclined to stay where he puts it this time around, and he even finds enough patience in him to wrestle a new outfit out of the clothes box. Time to go home, then. If he still has one. After days of essentially having walked out on her (no matter how justified in it he continues to feel), he has no idea how welcome he'll be. How welcome he deserves to be. But hey, at least he'll have made his bloody point.

There's the alternative.

Time to see how intent she is on sticking with it, he thinks, eager to finally replace the endless echoes of her words in his head with the real thing as he maneuvers his way around Doc (at least someone's definitely happy to see him) to knock on his own front door.

He was supposed to be in early for something. All things considered, Sean's not actually that late in getting home, at least by his standards, but the moment he sets foot inside, he knows that he's forgotten something, something that dictated he get there somewhat earlier than usual.

Damned if he can remember what it is, though. Ah well, if it's important, he's sure he'll figure it out soon enough.

"Evenin' luv," he calls as he slams the door shut behind him, shucking off his jacket, flask tucked safely within for later, and dropping it against the back of a chair.

Truth be told, Sean is scared out of his wits. It's a different kind of fear, though, from the kind he felt when Meredith got hurt on the space station or the first time he tried to propose to her. This is a fear that fuels him, pushes him forward, makes him want to take on the whole damn world just to prove that he can. It's terrifying and exhilarating, and as much as he loves it, it still triggers in him that same old instinct to move, to get out of there, and considering that he's on the eve of a very special occasion, he figures he'll allow himself a bit of indulgence by giving in to the urge.

He's just not going to do it without Meredith.

Everyone's been kept well busy all day with the multitude of last-minute tasks that seem to spring up out of nowhere with weddings, even small affairs such as this one, and night is falling by the time he manages to sneak off for the north tower. He makes sure that Theresa's well taken care of before he does (after months spent thinking she was dead, everyone is more than eager to dote on the girl), leaves a note to Meredith in their bedroom for whenever she can break away herself, telling her where to join him, and then he waits.

He figures that she'll be wanting for a breather as well.

He means to do it for days before he actually gets around to going. Every time he and Meredith leave the castle, something in Sean wants to take him down the path that branches off to the small cemetery off by the forest's edge, but he can never bring himself to actually do it. He knows that he needs to, and that it should be sooner rather than later even with the way the expectation that he'll wake up back on the island gets a little smaller every day, but that doesn't make it something he can just slip into his routine. He needs to block off a specific time to do it, to slink off on his own and just pay his respects like he should have days ago, years ago.

Since he knows that the chance isn't just going to come up on its own, he eventually makes it, waking just before dawn and dressing by the light of the remains of last night's fire. When Meredith asks him where he's going, he tells the truth, but he also doesn't stick around to talk about it, heading out right as the sun peeks over the horizon.

When he gets there, he isn't sure what to do. He feels like he should say something, but he can't stand the thought of wondering whether or not she can hear him. In the end, he winds up just staying stock still in front of the great stone angel standing tall amidst the rows of graves (sticking out from the crowd even in death, that's his Maeve), much like the last time he was in this spot. The only other time.

He stays far longer than he intends to, long enough for a promising morning to turn into a chilly, gray afternoon, but still he doesn't leave. Eventually, once the groundskeeper's finished his rounds for the day and Sean's sure that he's alone, he sits, his elbows resting on his knees. He's not sure what coming out here was supposed to accomplish, but he's pretty sure it's not doing it, although the knowledge that his memory of the words etched in the stone is perfect comes as an odd sort of reassurance.

Maeve Rourke Cassidy

21 May, 1955 - 24 May, 1978

Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go sleep thou with them.

At least some things haven't faded. Cold comfort, but sometimes, that's all he can take.

Finally, after hours of clearing his throat and changing his mind at the last second, he manages to speak, little more than a whisper.

"I miss you."

No one hears it.

He doesn't get up.

Sean's not sure what to think. Since waking up in their Washington hotel room yet again that morning, he's been in a perpetual state of unease that has nothing to do with the absolute reaming that is no doubt in store for him in London. He's half-tempted to suggest just going on the lam with Meredith for however much longer this lasts, but for now, he spends his time fidgeting in his cramped economy seat on the plane (maybe he'd been on something of a spending spree, but the tickets had been booked on their behalf), playing with a tiny, empty scotch bottle.

"Least all yer paperwork went through without a hitch," he says, looking over at Meredith with a cheerfulness that, vague unease aside, remains pretty genuine after the events of the last day. Maybe they should have gone back by now, maybe there's more to this than they initially thought, but whatever they're facing, they're still facing it together.

The rest of the ride to Minsk seems to go by absurdly quick, but Sean knows that that's got to do with nothing but the fact that he still isn't sure what the hell he's going to do once they get there. It isn't exactly a situation he ever thought he'd get to be in again, not in a long damn time, anyway. Not since he was a whole different person.

Or was he?

Faced with the looming, unsettling prospect of finding out just how far he hasn't come, Sean does the only thing he can think of in the meantime: he stalls. Between the wait for Mystique after her insistence that she stay behind with the remaining soldiers to solidify their cover (surprise, surprise: she never shows back up) and the detour into the city proper for Igor, the interrogator, to get them access to a safe phone line so Wolverine can secure their eventual extraction, he winds up with plenty of time to convince Team X to let him hang back with the truck while they do the initial storming of the castle, so to speak. Given how fortified the safehouse no doubt will be, it just makes sense to keep an ace in the hole for when the bullets start flying (technically, that's supposed to be if, but they all know better than that) instead of throwing everything they have at the place all at once.

So here he is, standing outside the truck with Meredith just before noon, Igor still sitting in the driver's seat (he'd grown much more cooperative after finally agreeing to defect instead of letting himself be inevitably executed as a traitor to mother Russia) as the others sneak off to ambush the Black Widow. This is the endgame. Do or die, and all those cliches. He'd better not screw it up.

The first time they come for Sean, they don't speak. They barge into the room, jolting him awake with a start, and haul him to his feet before he's got the chance to do it himself. There are no pretenses here as the first blow glances off his cheek and sends him right back down to the floor. This isn't an interrogation, and they aren't trying to get anything out of him. They're just softening him up for later. Fighting back proves to be fruitless, there are two of them with a visibly armed third standing in the doorway, and all he can really do is know how to take a hit and try to make certain they don't do him any real damage.

It goes on so long that Sean wonders if they're just going to try to beat him to death and be done with it, but they do eventually back off, leaving him battered and spitting out blood in the dingy, white-tiled room as they leave. The solid oak door closes with a bang, and then he's alone in the dark to figure out what's happening to him, the only light in the room coming from a small, barred window in the door.

He preferred it when his major concern was the beating.

The man in the doorway had been a cop, Polish from the look of the uniform. The two working him over, though, had been wearing suits. KGB then, most likely. While he can work out a few alternate scenarios for that, he can't afford to waste his time dancing around the most obvious one, no matter how much it hurts.

"Home sweet home, boyo."

The last thing he remembers before turning up on the island is beating on a Russian girl who'd just been in a car accident in broad daylight, it only makes sense that he'd land himself in prison for it, and with the way he'd been tailed ever since Berlin, the KGB would have ensured he didn't waste his time in regular lockup. The table, chairs, and cheaply soundproofed walls mark his surroundings as an interrogation room, and he knows his captors will be back in fairly short order.

If there's one perk to having apparently left the island behind (for now or for good, he can't say), it's that he should have his powers back. Assuming his injuries have healed enough to not affect them too severely, he's not going to be staying locked up for much longer. Having that ace tucked in his back pocket goes a long way toward solving some of his more immediate problems, namely being not far from getting executed and tossed in an unmarked grave hundreds of miles past the Iron Curtain.

Fortunately, he's saved from having to shift his focus to the less pressing but no less important issue of leaving the island and everything that entails by the shadow that falls across the room a moment later. Apparently his new friends hadn't gone far. For a moment, he considers just nailing them through the door, but as much as he'd like to get to freedom as quickly as possible, and as much as he doesn't like waiting when he's still not positive if his scream will be up to the task after nearly three years and a still-healing throat, knowledge is power, and he needs all he can get. If they weren't going to try questioning him eventually, he'd already have a bullet in his head. Adopting a defensive stance, he takes up position in a far corner of the room and readies himself for round two.

He needs to get out. Sean's been good these past few days, he's been a bloody saint, but there's a letter in the post that he can't quite believe he's written and while he pauses by the entryway, he can't just drag himself back to that clinic right now. It's too quiet and stifling, pushing in on him from all sides, and he can't do it. Instead, he makes a beeline straight for the front doors and pushes on through, blinking in the sudden sunlight. For a moment, he very nearly breaks into a run, just wanting to cover as much distance as is physically possible, but seeing as he's sure Meredith would actually kill him if she ever found out, he sits himself roughly down on the steps to quell the urge.

He sits himself down and he doesn't move. He's not sure for how long, but it's a while. He should get up, go back inside and tell Meredith that he's officially checking out, or he should go home and get some real rest, or he should go grab a drink before she catches on and he misses his chance. There are a whole lot of things he should be doing, but instead he just sits there, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring into the distance and ignoring anyone who passes him by. He sits, unable either to get up or to ignore the heavy weight of the knowledge that a fairly significant, if short, part of his life is likely now over forever.