Attention Longmire fans! Spoilers for the season finale...so if you haven't watched it or any of season 3, I suggest ye turn back now...otherwise, read on and (hopefully) enjoy.

Not mine...never have been, never will be, and I'm surprisingly okay with that. Craig Johnson's a damn genius, if you ask me. :)

Vic drives the new-ish SUV like a speed demon chartering a bat out of Hell and whatever other cliched terms she can think of to describe the 100 miles per hour registering on the dashboard. In fact, she drives so fast the fancy, high-tech computer onboard reminds her to slow down. She tells it to go fuck itself and buries the needle a little deeper.

Branch's father is dying, possibly dead.

Walt's wife is dead and - finally - buried.

Her marriage to Sean is dead and decomposing.

She tries not to dwell too much on the last one as she spies the Bullet thundering down the road towards her. Instead, she starts flashing her lights and honking her horn, anything to get his attention and stop him from doing what she thinks he's about to do.

Miraculously, he pulls off on the shoulder and she slams the brakes on, skidding to a stop that has her tapping his front bumper with hers. They stare at each other through their respective windshields.

He looks calm...far too calm.

She, on the other hand, probably looks manic as hell.

They get out and he meets her on her side. There's furious tension in his jaw, his shoulders. She's seen him angry before, seen him lose control - the black eyes staring back at her this morning were a fair reminder of that, thank you very much - but this is different. He seems both poised for violence and at peace. A walking contradiction - even more so than usual.

"Vic," he says and there's a litany in that one word, in her name. She tries to ignore it, tries to ignore the way he says it nowadays.

"Branch's dad," she says, takes a deep breath, then continues. "It was Barlow who hired David Ridges to kill your wife. Not Nighthorse. He took the money, Walt, but Connally did the directing."

His expression shifts, morphs from determined to confused. "Connally?" he asks and she nods. "Why…"

"Martha's opposition to the casino was gaining ground. Without the casino, Barlow stood to lose more than just a business property…"

He takes his hat off, tosses it through the open window of her SUV, and leans back against the driver's side door with a thud that seems too loud in the quiet of the prairie surrounding them. "How…"

"Branch shot him. Barlow, he tried to kill Branch - tried to kill his own goddamn son - but Branch...all that time running around paranoid...the idiot actually saw it coming. Barlow's in surgery...Doc Weston's not sure he's going to make it." Walt nods. She takes her hands from where they sit on her hips, cautiously reaches out to lay one against his chest, right over his heart. "You weren't about to do what I think you were about to do, were you?" she asks.

He hangs his head, reaches a hand up to cover hers. It's much bigger and very warm, the skin calloused and rough. She can feel his heartbeat under her palm - thump, thump, thump.

"I was on my way to avenge Martha," he says, eyes still cast downward. "I thought it was Jacob Nighthorse…"

Vic nods, distracted by the unconscious - maybe...maybe not - motion of Walt's thumb against the back of her hand. "Branch called, told me everything, and I knew...I just, somehow, knew that you were gunning for Jacob. And not just because he's an asshole…"

He looks up, then, and catches her gaze within his own. His free hand moves to her face, his giant fingers lightly touching the faint bruising under her eyes and along the bridge of her nose. She winces but smiles at the contact.

"I still can't believe I did that," he says, his voice soft in the quiet. "I can't believe I hit you, Vic."

She shrugs. "The benefit of friendship, Walt, is that we keep each other from doing stupid shit and forgive when we inevitably fuck up."

The corners of his mouth twitch and the hand hovering near her face drops back to his side. The other squeezes her hand covering his heart.

"Well, then, you're two ahead of me."

"But who's keeping score, right?" She grins at him, but it fades. "Don't do whatever it was you were planning. He isn't worth it."

"Worth what, exactly?"

Their hands fall away from each other. She feels bereft at the loss of contact, but hides it. She's gotten so good at hiding things lately - from him, from Sean, from herself. "Vengeance changes you, Walt. Holding on to that much hate and anger just feeds the beast and it's never satisfied - even when it gets what it wants. Killing Jacob wouldn't have healed you or brought back Martha. It would've just ripped open the wound." She crosses her arms over her chest, defensive against herself. "I thought I lost you once and it nearly killed me. I can't do it again."

He reaches for her so quickly she can't react properly and when he pulls her to him, her feet stumble and she literally falls into his burly embrace. She turns her head so that her ear rests over his heart, right where her hand lay minutes earlier.

"You didn't lose me, Vic," he whispers, his lips brushing against the crown of her head. "You goddamn saved me."

She closes her eyes and listens to the Wyoming wilderness around them, listens to his heartbeat in his chest - thump, thump, thump. In all her time on this Earth, she's honestly never loved the sound of something so much in her life as she does the sound of his heart beating rhythmically under her cheek. It tells her he's alive and she'd give more than just her marriage to make sure he stays that way.

What are friends for, after all?