A/N: i started writing this before 'words for empty...' but got stuck and then my brain was hijacked by walt and his 26 letters. from the beginning, the story seemed to fall naturally into a three part structure. then i reread the poem 'artless' by brenda shaughnessy and the excerpt in the summary really struck me. so i decided to re-purpose it. the title is also from the poem because i am incompetent when it comes to titles.

WAR

Vic watched Eamonn drive away, unable to control the smile on her face. It was such an unexpected thing. Sleazes and stalkers and confusing dynamics aside, the last guy who'd been openly attracted to her was Sean. And apparently that was long enough ago that she'd forgotten how to tell when a man was interested and not just joking around. Flirty jokes had become the default for dealing with most of her male colleagues as a cop. Her suggestive exchanges with Branch had been more about competition and status than sex. And early on she'd even hit Walt with some innuendo now and then. At least until the line between what was play and what was real blurred beyond recognition.

Just thinking his name brought to boil the anger that'd been simmering since he'd come back to work. Vic looked up at the station building as her smile slipped and fell. She'd been pissed at Walt before but never like this. This was six weeks of being all but ignored and then days of getting snarled at for bullshit transgressions. This was him using the job as an excuse not to deal with his personal shit. And she'd had enough. She was done with him being a dick and acting like the only feelings that mattered were his own; done living on months of nothing and still putting him first; done being treated like a toy he didn't want for himself but didn't want anyone else to have either. She was done.

Walking up the stairs, Vic finally gave in to all the resentment and frustration and confusion she'd been pushing down for so long. She felt cocked like a gun with the safety off and a bullet in the chamber. All that potential destruction just waiting for release. She hit the landing and aimed herself at the door marked 'Private'. Trajectory set, she slammed into Walt's office and pulled the trigger.

"What the fuck is your problem?"

The door glass rattled in its frame.

Walt braced both hands on his desk and turned to her. "Excuse me?"

"You heard what I said."

Clenching his jaw, he rose silently to his full height and crossed his arms. It was a move he used often to cow unruly witnesses and intimidate suspects. But Vic had been surrounded by cops her entire life and that kind of posturing hadn't worked on her since the age of seven. It certainly wasn't going to work now.

She kept her voice low and flat with a great deal of effort. "You've been acting like a complete jackass since you came back. You've been rude and dismissive and completely inflexible with everyone. Ferg and Eamonn and I worked our asses off while you were gone, and we got zero help from you. I don't even know how many messages I left that I guess you didn't think were important enough to return. And instead of some kind of acknowledgement or, I don't know, maybe even a thank you, we get nothing but a bad attitude, like you're pissed that it all didn't just fall apart without you!"

"I'm supposed to thank you for doing your jobs?"

"For doing your job as well as my own, hell yes!" Walt opened his mouth again but she wasn't done. "And especially Eamonn, who's been working here as a favor. You were nothing but disrespectful to him and that was before you fired him for no goddamn reason! It's been like a watching a dog mark its territory around here. I keep waiting for you to start pissing in the corners. So I repeat, what the fuck is your problem?"

Oh, now he was angry. "Let me remind you that you work for me, Vic—"

"Like you ever let me forget it," she snapped.

"—and I'll put up with a lot from you, but if you want to start talking about a lack of respect then take a look in the mirror."

She laughed, incredulous. "You'll put up with a lot from me? Well holy shit, how generous of you!"

He let his hands fall to his sides. "I didn't mean—"

"No, uh uh," she cut him off. "You left me in charge and I did my best for this department and the whole damn county. If that's not enough for you, if you don't like the way I was running things, fine, but I'm not going to apologize for getting the work done, and I'm not going to apologize for bringing in somebody—who you approved—who was qualified and knew the job. Eamonn's a good cop and Ferg and I would've been up shit creek without his help. Whatever irrational dislike you've got for him doesn't give you the right to act like an unprofessional asshole."

That last barb seemed to hit him somewhere soft. "I'm sorry if sending your boyfriend back to his own job puts a crimp in your social life."

"Boyfriend? What boyfriend?" she demanded, furious and not even bothering to try and keep her voice down anymore. Let the whole goddamn world hear; what did she care? "I've barely had time to buy toilet paper in the last six weeks, when the hell have I had time to go on a date for Christ's sake? Or maybe you don't mean dating, maybe you mean fucking." She took two steps closer to the desk, honing in.

"Is that what you want to know, Walt? If I'm fucking him?" He winced and she felt a stab of morbid satisfaction. "For your information, the last time I got laid was with Sean and that was before our little adventure with Chance Gilbert. Not that my sex life is any of your goddamn business, since I just work for you. But it's good to know you think I'll jump the first guy who crosses my path. What, you figure by now I must've already made my way through all the dick in this county, so I had to move on to a new one?"

"That's not what I—" he began in a gentler tone. But she was tired of being placated. Tired of his voice and his eyes and his every expression seeming to say so much but really meaning nothing at all.

"No, no, I'm glad we were able to have this little chat. It's definitely cleared up some things for me. So, really, thank you." Her voice cracked somewhere in the middle and she was horrified to feel the burn of tears behind her eyes.

Walt moved out from behind his desk. "Vic—"

Holding up her hands, she backed toward the inner door. Her face felt hot and her stomach teetered on the edge of nausea but there was no way she was going to lose it in front of him. "I haven't had a single day off while you've been playing Robinson Crusoe or whatever the fuck you were doing, so I'm leaving. I won't be in tomorrow and I may not come in the next day, either, just for the hell of it. If you've got a problem with that, Walt, I really don't fucking care. You can go ahead and fire me, too."

Vic wrenched the door open and strode to her desk. Snatching her things, she glanced up and found Ferg staring at her with his mouth open. "Sorry, Ferg," she said in an undertone. "See you in a couple days." And she walked quickly through the side door, down the stairs, and out of the building.

It wasn't until she was in the truck with the door shut that she started shaking. The adrenaline spike of fury was quickly wearing off and the hurt underneath it began to seep through. Vic dug down, trying to find the anger again, but it was all used up like a spent shell casing. In its place lingered an ache in the soft spaces behind her ribs, as if someone had gotten past her guard and delivered a hard kick to her chest.

Well, she thought as she started the engine, hasn't he?

Vic drove at exactly the speed limit the whole way home. Confronted by piles of unopened mail, dirty dishes, and garbage when she got there, she almost turned around and drove away again. Her head was a riot zone and she needed to get out of it, to not think or feel but just do. She took the stairs two at a time and stripped down to her underwear and tank. Clothes were strewn all over the place and she couldn't remember what was clean and what was dirty. She just grabbed the first pair of shorts she could find, pulled on some shoes, and walked back out the door.

As soon as she cleared the driveway, Vic started running. She didn't bother to stretch or warm up; she just ran. Flat out, as fast and hard as she could. She ran until her lungs burned and her muscles cramped. She ran until there was nothing in her head except the pounding of her blood. She ran until she fell, then pushed herself to her feet and ran some more. When she fell a second time, she got up and brushed at her bloodied knees, then turned around and stumbled her way home.

By the time she made it inside her head was throbbing and her mouth was almost too dry for spit. She chugged two glasses of water and then puked them up in the sink. The third glass stayed down after she started sipping it. Her bones felt brittle and the skin of her face was stretched tight from the sun and the wind. She took a cool shower and slathered herself in moisturizer. All her movements felt sluggish and uncoordinated; she was dizzy. Probably dehydrated.

When she finally thought to check her phone she found two missed calls from the office but no messages.

Whatever.

Exhausted by her run, her fight with Walt, and just her life in general, Vic switched off her phone, collapsed on the bed, and went to sleep.

[TBC]