Crossover between Person of Interest (right at the end of season 3) and Longmire. Unlikely? Yeah, probably…
AN: I thought it would be fun to have John and Walt together, seeing them as the silent type. Except, that what I actually enjoy is writing dialogue! Should have thought about that before I started… Turned out to be a bit complicated. A huge thank you to Yellowstone69 who helped me get back on track, suggested directions, read the story (in English, poor her). I wouldn't have made it without you! Thank you so much.
This is my first Longmire fiction. So please forgive any discrepancies.
As always, English still not my first language. This has not been beta'd. Actually looking for a beta (yeah, this is an offer or call for help, whatever…). So any mistakes, let me know, I'll correct.
"Welcome to Durant – Absaroka County"
John Reese couldn't help a relieved sigh. Even though he knew he was on the right road, the last miles had seemed to stretch on forever, almost having him think he had somehow missed a turn somewhere. Slowing down the car slightly he couldn't help an amused smile as he drove past the sign.
The old gunshot on the right corner was still there. No one had bothered to have the sign replaced… Not that bullet holes on road signs were rare in the area. Hunters –and young fool heads– made it a game to practice shooting on those. The top right hole was his, some… far too long ago to remember.
After Samaritan had gone on line and the Machine had given them new identities, after parting ways with his employer and friends, John had decided to leave New York until the dust settled somewhat. Forced to leave the loft for obvious security reasons, he had "borrowed" a car and taken the long road to Wyoming. Mark Snow knew him well; Montana wasn't that far away…
He had driven the 2000 miles only stopping for gas, coffee and an occasional nap. The stress of the last months had kept the adrenaline high, but weariness had caught up a few hours ago. He was beyond tired, only wishing for a shower and a bed, not necessarily in that order.
He parked the car on the main square. The old hotel was still there. For that matter, so was the sheriff's office. Walt would have his hide if he learned that John had gone straight to his bed without stopping by first.
Walter Longmire, sheriff of Durant, was a longtime friend, back to a life when skies were blue and days full of fun.
He entered the building, going up the stairs, knowing the way to the sheriff's office back from times when Walt wasn't the boss there. He pushed the door open. Nothing had changed much, newer computers maybe, and a female deputy. Ruby raised her head when she heard the door open and her jaw dropped to her desk.
"Hi Ruby," John said and nodded his greetings to the blonde sitting behind a desk.
Ruby moved her lips but no sound came out. The door to the sheriff's office was open, and the floor creaked as its occupant moved.
"John." Walt greeted John casually leaning against the doorjamb, as if they had seen each other just a few hours ago, not some ten years back.
"Walt." John lifted a corner of his mouth, in a half smile.
After a few seconds of silence, Walt made a gesture with his hand, inviting him to his office and closing the door behind their backs.
Ruby was still looking at the closed door.
"Who was that?" Vic asked, feeling that something had just happened.
She rose to get Ruby a glass of water. She had never seen the older woman that dumbstruck.
"Ruby, are you alright?" she asked gently as she gave her the glass of water. "You look like you've just seen a ghost."
Ruby seemed to finally come out of her shock. "Sort of," she whispered.
John let himself drop on the chair by the window while Walt opened a drawer to get a bottle and glasses. He poured whisky generously and handed John a glass.
"I was told you were dead," he simply said, in a slightly reproachful tone.
"Yeah, rumor has it," John answered with an apologetic shrug.
Both men lifted their glass in a toast and savored their drinks in silence. It was one of their traits that used to drive Ruby crazy: none was the talkative kind. She had been known to complain it was easier to get blood out of a chair than words out of them.
"You staying for long?" Walt finally asked.
"Few days," John answered.
Swirling the drink in his glass, his memory drifted back to the day he had met Walt for the first time.
2014 – 2013 – 2010 – 2000 – 1990 – 1985 – 1982 – 1980 - 1979
As most summers, John was spending the holidays at his grandfather's farm in Wyoming. The old man wasn't very strict on rules, and as long as he was home for meals and back before 9 pm, the youngster was left to his own devices.
That day, he had been fishing by the river when a flash of yellow light in the water had attracted him. Having heard his grandpa's stories about gold diggers since he was born, he had jumped in the river not believing his luck. But the river was deeper than he had expected and the current quite swift. In no time, the rush of water was taking him downstream and all he could do was try to get his head out of the water to catch some air from time to time.
"Catch the rope!" a voice yelled from the bank.
Fighting the current, he had managed to get his head out and extend a hand to get the loop of the perfectly aimed lasso. The pull of the rope almost dislocated his shoulder but he didn't let go. Soon he could feel his body being slowly pulled to the shore. Two pairs of arms grabbed him and helped him out to the ground where he fell on his knees coughing and spitting water.
"Thanks," he managed to sputter between two coughing fits.
"Breathe kid, you'll thank us later," said the voice, gently rubbing a hand on his back.
1979 – 1990 – 2010 – 2014
It had been the beginning of an undying friendship. Walter Longmire and Henry Standing Bear had remained the only unmoving foundation of his life, whatever life had thrown at them or despite the years they had been apart. No matter how long they didn't talk or see each other, he knew he would always be welcomed, that the friendship would be unchanged.
The last time he had seen Walt had been right before starting his work for the CIA. Before his life had turned to black, before he had crossed the line. And even before that, he had rarely had the time to see him in between tours for the army. Some phone calls, a letter before e-mails put an end to real paper.
When the Machine had given them their new lives and urged them to disappear for a few weeks, coming back to Durant had seemed like a logical decision. He also knew that Walt wouldn't ask questions. The man had his own demons, his own dark secrets; he wouldn't expect John to share things with him.
"Where are you staying?"
"Nowhere yet, just got here. Figured you'd throw me in jail if I didn't visit you first," John answered with a light smile. "I'll get a room at Suzie's hotel."
"Suzie sold the hotel. Why don't you crash at my place?"
"You finally got your log house in the valley?"
Walt smiled. Henry would probably argue as to whether it was really a house versus just a roof and walls, but it served its purpose. When they were kids, dreaming up what their house would look like and where it would be had been a topic of quite a few nights around the fire.
He watched his friend. John's eyes were drooping.
"John, you look dead on your feet. How long have you been driving?"
"Long enough."
Walt rose from his chair and grabbed his hat.
"Come on let's go. Leave your car; I don't want to peel you from a tree."
The ex-agent didn't have the strength to protest, and followed the sheriff to the car after grabbing a duffle bag in his trunk. John leaned back with a sigh.
Walter cast an amused glance to John as he turned the ignition on.
"Let's get you into a bed before you fall asleep. I'm not carrying you and it is too cold to sleep in the car."
"So you finally got to build your house in the valley?"
"Yeah…" Walt sighed.
"Sorry I couldn't make it to the funeral…"
Silence stretched. John had been there for the wedding. He had never seen Walt so happy. And although he didn't get to see his friend as often as he would have liked; he had kept tabs. Being the sheriff made him a public figure; finding information about his life was easy.
"I didn't work much on the house after… she passed." Walt winced slightly. "Henry keeps pestering at me for delaying."
Once they got to the log cabin, they never had time to discuss. John crashed on the couch, falling asleep with all his clothes on. Walt chuckled, removed his shoes and covered him with a blanket.
John hadn't moved an inch the following morning when Walt got up and started the coffee. He stirred, pushing the blanket off and trying to clear his brain. He barely remembered getting out of the car. Falling dead asleep like he had was unheard off; if he needed proof that he felt safe in this place…
"Look what the cat dragged in," Henry said from the door step.
"Walt, there's an Indian on your doorstep. Where's the gun?" John asked rising from the couch.
Henry shook his head at the old joke.
After he and Walt had gotten John from the water, they had sat down for a while, letting him get over his fright and close call with death. They had introduced themselves, then John had looked at Henry wide eyed "you're an Indian". Walt had frowned in disapproval at the comment, but Henry had raised an eyebrow waiting for the rest of the sentence. "Which tribe are you? Could you show me the rez?" The innocent curiosity had led to thousands of questions. By the time, the young John was done, Henry had turned to Walt and asked him if he could just shoot him and put an end to his misery.
He came forward engulfing the younger man in a bear hug. John returned the greeting warmly, glad to see his friend.
"Standing Bear, still visiting the resident grouch?" he asked in an amused voice.
"Someone has to look out for the elders," Henry answered.
"Kid, don't listen to him. He can't wait to be allowed on the Tribe's elders council."
John couldn't help a chuckle. Trust Walt to keep calling him kid even after all those years.
"How did you know I was here?" John asked.
Henry looked at him as if he had gone suddenly mad.
"This is Durant, not… Where the hell do you live now anyway?"
Small towns… Of course. By now, most of the city probably knew that Gordon's grandson was around. Who needed an omniscient machine when you had town gossip?
Henry brought in a paper bag with supplies.
"Brought stuff for breakfast. Do not count on Walt to feed you," the Native American joked making himself at home in the kitchen. "Go grab a shower while I cook."
Feeling half human again after the shower, Reese listened to his friends as they told him about what had happened in the town during the last years. Apparently, crime and secrecy were also part of small counties. He had thought that a few days out of New York would bring him some sort of peace, away from conspiracies, but trouble seemed to have reached even into the deep country.
John watched Walt and Henry interact. He could tell they were keeping things from him, but he didn't ask. If they didn't want to share, they had probably their reasons. They were friends before they even met him, they lived in the same town; they had been in the army together; they were bound to have deep bonds and secrets.
The three men were nursing a last cup of coffee in silence.
"So, are you going to tell us where you have been?" Henry finally asked. "Last we heard of you, you had left the army, right?"
"Yeah," John mumbled in a dark tone.
Silence stretched.
Henry finally burst out laughing.
"You have not changed one bit! I had almost forgotten why you used to drive me crazy. Getting words out of both of you is more difficult than solving the Native Americans problem."
Walt and John exchanged a glance and a small smile.
"So, you have plans for your visit?"
John looked out the window. The sky was bright blue and the trees seemed to reach up to the sun. He was suddenly startled by the silence. He wanted out. Fishing was not really an option and he wasn't fond of hunting, but just hiking sounded like a good idea.
He rose and went to the porch. The ground was partly frozen, the night had been cold, and even though the sun shone brightly, it didn't really provide much heat. A beautiful winter day in the mountains.
"Is the cave still reachable?" he asked turning to Walter.
"Oh God… I haven't been up there in years."
2014 – 2013 – 2010 – 2000 – 1990 – 1985 – 1982 – 1980
The age difference had never been a problem. John was tall for his age, and smart. He was the quiet type, listening to his older friends and always eager to follow in their footsteps.
The three young men were in a cave, sitting around an open fire. Henry was chanting an old Indian song.
"We'll always be friends
"We'll always protect each other
"We'll always keep the secrets
"We'll never be apart
"Until the end of times, our souls will be bound as one
Swiftly cutting their wrists, they had performed a blood pact, smiles huge on their innocent faces.
1980 – 1990 – 2010 – 2014
John absently rubbed the tiny scar. It was barely visible after so many years, a very light line on the inside of his arm.
Walt saw the gesture and smiled. Those days were so long ago it almost seemed like a dream.
"Check the closet, there should be hiking shoes your size."
Henry took his coat to leave.
"Gentlemen, I would love to go out and run free, but I do have a bar to run. I will see you guys later."
"Good to see you Henry."
"We'll come have a drink," Walt said.
"Bar?" John asked turning to Walt.
"The Red Pony, makes the best hamburgers in the county." Walt shook his head. "You've been gone too long, kid."
John winced. He wondered if he could tell Walt the reason why…
Wearing thick coats and gloves –John had borrowed his friend some clothes– the two men went out the trail to reach their youth hiding place. They had spent hours in the cave, sharing secrets, making plans for the future, confessing to their first kiss… They felt safe there, a place where no harm could ever reach them.
The exercise felt nice, as the sharp crisp mountain air. Puffs of smoke escaped their mouths as the ground became more uneven and led them higher up.
Two hours later they reached the cave. John bent at the entrance, looking inside.
"This is it? I remember it bigger," John mused looking around.
The mountain had changed, trees were taller, the trail was different. He probably wouldn't have found the way on his own.
"You were smaller," Walt chuckled.
John shrugged and sat on a rock, watching over the valley. The point of view was breathtaking. Up there, alone, as kids they felt as if they ruled over the world. He knew now that no one ruled the world, except for AI machines, but the feeling was still there. Far away from the world, as if nothing could reach them.
"Jessica is dead," he said suddenly.
"Oh," Walt exclaimed and sat down too. "I'm sorry."
The sheriff sighed in sadness. He could relate to the pain his friend was experiencing.
He could still see John's face during one of his lasts visits. The man glowed. He remembered watching him getting out of his car. His greeting had been "what's her name?" and he had burst out laughing when John had tried to go for an innocent face and pretend not knowing what he was talking about. But when he did start talking there was no stopping him. John had talked more in that single evening than in all his life. The last beers had probably helped, but the words of love kept pouring as the water in the river.
Silence settled between them, as both men grieved together.
"It was my fault. I let her go. She told me to ask her to stay, but I wasn't brave enough…" his voice faltered, the old pain still as vivid as the first day.
"What happened?" Walter asked softly.
"Her husband killed her," John hissed, clenching his jaw. If he could somehow kill the man again he would.
"Then how on earth is it your fault?"
"She called me but I didn't get to her in time."
Of course, being sent all the way to China to be assassinated kind of explained why, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he should have been there for her. And he was the one that had kept his mouth shut in an airport that fateful day…
Walt watched the eyes mist in pain. He gently squeezed the man's shoulder. No words existed that could ease the memories. He just let the man know he was there to listen if he wanted to talk. After a while, John turned his face to him, his lips lifting in a small smile.
"I had forgotten how peaceful it was up here."
"Yeah..." Walt cast a glance to the sky. "Might wanna head down though. It's going to snow."
"Snow?" John looked at the blue sky.
"Forgot how quickly the weather changes in here?" Walt asked pointing to the horizon and some looming clouds.
It turned out to change even more quickly than Walter had anticipated. Halfway back, big thick snowflakes started to fall, but John couldn't begin to care. It was beautiful. Snow in New York was always a pain. Biting wind, slush in the streets, cold seeping under the clothes, even the Library felt cold despite the heating blasting at his maximum. But here he could see each snow flake, catching them in his hand before they melted away.
"Let's hurry up a bit," Walt advised as he stepped on a wooden bridge.
There was an ominous crack as the plank under John's feet gave. He let out a strangled scream of surprise, then his breath was effectively cut as he fell into the freezing water. The swift current and the weight of his heavy coat whisked him away from the bridge, rushing him down the river.
Walter stood frozen for a second as he saw the body disappear; he rushed across the bridge to get on the shore and try to catch up on his friend.
"We really need to keep you away from rivers," he muttered as he saw the body tumbling down the river.
Burdened by the weight of his water sodden coat, John felt like he was eleven again, not even able to fight against the current but just trying to keep his head above water. The cold was seeping in fast too. The current curved around a bend and threw him against some branches in the water. He managed to grasp one with a grunt and almost let go when he choked on the water that had entered his mouth. He coughed the water out while holding on with all the strength he could summon. The current kept pushing on his body making it impossible to get any leverage on his hands. The water hit against the branches and bounced back against his face. He couldn't feel his gloved hands anymore; he felt his hands slide and his body was pushed once more by the current.
His body kept going down; suddenly a thick log hit his ribs harshly. He screamed in pain as he felt some snap, then folded over the dead tree. Pulling strength from some unknown reserve in his body, he managed to pull a leg up and straddle the tree. More than of his body was still under water but the current actually kept him in place. He coughed water, panting and trying to get his breath back.
Pushed against the log by the current, held in place by the tree underneath his body, he couldn't move. An oddly detached part of his mind wondered at the fact that he was going to die in a river. Not from the guns of some mafia men, or the conspiracy of a demented secret group, but because he had fallen off a bridge.
He had almost drowned once, in this same river, as a kid. Walt and Henry had been there that time. But they weren't around today. Sure Walter would get to him, but given the speed he had gone down the current, it would take time before he got to him. He'd be dead before. The water was freezing, the current adding to the chill, he wouldn't survive more than twenty minutes.
At least, he'd get a nice funeral. He sobbed a laugh. Yes, with his real name on the tombstone. Walter was actually one of the only few people who knew his real name. Probably didn't even know about Reese… He had always thought he would end up in an unnamed tomb. It was nice to know that he would get a marker. Maybe Finch would locate him and come to visit.
He smiled, at least in his head. Maybe Finch could go on with the new life the Machine had given him, safe from the crutches of Samaritan. Far from an ideal life, probably, but at least alive, and away from danger. It had been nice while it lasted. Those lives he saved barely making it up for the ones he had taken, but in the ultimate balance of right and wrong, a little tip in the right direction.
His mind drifted, losing track of time. He watched the snowflakes settle on his hand, not melting anymore, pilling one by one. It was fascinating to see them stick, thickening the layer above his glove. He focused on moving a finger but the order never reached his hand.
Cold. He wasn't shivering anymore. A rational part of his mind knew it was bad, but he couldn't manage to care. Sleeping sounded nice, just a little nap to forget the bone crushing cold.
"Thank you Finch. I'm sorry…" he whispered.
The cold disappeared as darkness engulfed him.
TBC…