At the end of season 5 I had one question: What will Vic do? Since season six hadn't started yet, I decided to guess where it might go.

Confession: two words of dialogue in the first chapter are straight from Craig Johnson, but the situation is different. If you've never read the Longmire books, you NEED to. So much better than fanfic, and it's where the Walt/Vic dynamic started.

Written from Vic's point of view, since Walt gets his say in the books.

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All I Want Is You

Chapter 1

Talk about a bad day. THIS was a bad day. Being a cop in Philly may have been a shitty job, but at least I'd never ended up covered in actual shit. This was at least the second time since moving to Durant that this had happened. It didn't help that Walt and Ferg were laughing at me. Oh, they were hiding it well enough—they knew better —but I could see they were straining to hide their grins.

I'd responded to a simple enough domestic disturbance. And this time it wasn't even Omar and whoever he was married to lately. Or Lucian shooting at crows. No, this domestic disturbance involved sheep, and not in an amusing way. How I'd ended up in the mud in the pen was anybody's guess. I was only trying to keep a pair of assholes from beating each other senseless. Next time, I'll just let them at each other. Hell, maybe I'll even arm them so they can get it over with quickly. And it didn't help that by the time my so-called backup arrived, the couple in question was furiously making up, not at all disturbed by the mud and the muck. Damn it all to hell. This was absolutely the last time I tried to help anyone.

"Come on, I'll give you a ride to my place. You can clean up there." At least Walt had managed to stop smiling. It appeared he was over his initial amusement and was back to business as usual, thank God. I am so done being the brunt of Ferg's "city girl" jokes.

Walt was right. His place was just a few miles away. Washing up there was definitely preferable to driving all the way back to town, or worse yet, to my place. I hated the idea of walking into my trailer covered in shit, and pulling off all my clothes while still outside would have gained far more attention from Travis and Joe Mega than I wanted. Walt had transported worse things than a smelly deputy before, and I'd rather get his truck dirty than mine, so I climbed in the Bronco and let Ferg take my truck.

"Don't. Even. Start." I threatened as we pulled onto the highway. I was in no mood to hear any advice Walt had to give on how to deescalate a situation without becoming the situation. I knew I'd messed up, and I didn't necessarily want to talk about it at this particular moment.

Walt briefly raised his hands above his head in mock surrender. "I didn't say a thing," he responded calmly, while concentrating on the road. That was one thing about Walt—he wasn't into teasing or making others feel bad.

He allowed me to suffer in silence until we reached the cabin. "Leave your boots on the porch and your clothes on the washer. I'll take care of 'em." Chivalry was always alive where Walt was concerned, but doing laundry… that was a whole new level. I decided not to question it and take him up on the offer. Of course he stayed outside while I shed my clothes in his laundry room and tiptoed to his shower.

I don't know when he did it, but when I turned off the water and pulled back the curtain, there on the edge of the sink were two clean towels, a t-shirt, and a pair of shorts. I managed to get what I assumed were a pair of Walt's boxers to stay on my hips with a bit of pulling and tucking, so I wasn't too indecent when I left the bathroom.

I must have stayed in the shower longer than planned, because Walt was on the couch, sans hat, coat, and boots, with feet propped up on the table and paperwork spread out around him. Still toweling off my wet hair, I sat next to him, pulling my feet up on the couch, and leaning my knees against his thigh. He didn't seem to mind the intrusion into his personal space.

"What have you got here?" I asked, looking at the papers spread around him.

"Ballistics report on that shooting last week," he responded, staring at the papers. I took the one he offered and studied it.

"That trajectory's all wrong," I muttered, looking over the diagrams. "That doesn't fit at all with the witness statement."

"Yup," he said, having already come to that conclusion. "Either the bullets are lying or the witness is." He stacked up the papers and seemed to notice me there next to him for the first time. He relaxed a bit more into the couch, leaning his head back and draping a hand across my knees. He breathed deeply while taking in my wet hair and no-make-up face. "You smell really good," he murmured, continuing to stare while he said it.

"Well I used your soap and shampoo, so I probably smell like you," I said, unable to keep a smile from creeping onto my face.

"No, that's not it," he replied rather seriously. Keeping his eyes on mine, he stretched his arm around my back and pulled me closer. I responded by snuggling down lower and resting my wet head on his shoulder.

"Thanks for the shower. And the clothes," I whispered feebly, not sure what else to say.

"No problem. They look better on you than on me." That got a smile out of both of us.

Not sure where the conversation was headed, I tried not to think too hard, and just relaxed into him, content to be sharing a peaceful moment.

"I know," he said softly, after a few minutes of silence, so softly I wasn't entirely sure he'd said it. I tilted my head so I could see his face, trying to determine if he was talking about what I thought he was.

"The baby. I know you're pregnant." He let the truth hang there, not judging, not searching for explanations, just the truth.

My breath stopped. Maybe my heart did, too. But I made myself breathe out the next few words. "Was pregnant. No longer. Not anymore." I had to turn from his gaze when I said it, not sure how to continue.

His words were so quiet, so careful, I almost missed them. "Are you okay?" he said with a bit of anxiety in his voice. "What happened? If … if I can ask, that is."

"You can ask," I replied softly. "Chance Gilbert happened. Or his bat-shit crazy sister-wife did. Everything was fine after she attacked me, but a couple days later … it wasn't fine. I lost the baby." I had to stop speaking when my heart stuck in my throat. I still wasn't sure how I felt. I was relieved and sad all at the same time. How do you express something like that? Yes, I wanted to have kids someday. Yes, I was sad this wasn't the day. I was profoundly sad for the unborn life that I'd known only briefly, but I had to admit I was also relieved—so very selfishly relieved. This pregnancy wasn't planned. It wasn't started in love. I would have loved the child, but I did not want my life tied to Travis's, or Eamon's, or even Sean's. There was only one man I wanted that connection with—the one holding me—and I felt like I'd betrayed him, like I'd cheated on him. I know we don't have that kind of relationship, but the specifics of the relationship don't matter. The only relevant fact is that my heart belongs to him, whether he wants it or not. I'd betrayed that love by making stupid, irresponsible decisions that I would always regret. The fact that I no longer faced the life-changing repercussion of those decisions was small consolation to the grief and pain I'd dealt with since. Even though I was no longer pregnant, I knew that it would always be a barrier between Walt and me. The relationship my heart longed for was no longer possible and I had no one but myself to blame.

After a while I realized that I'd stopped talking. Walt continued to hold me while tears slipped silently down my cheeks. He asked no questions, made no demands, and didn't try to shush me. He just held me and let me weep.

When my brain stopped replaying the last few months of my life, and allowed me to return to the present, I took a few deep breaths and exhaled slowly.

"I'm so sorry, Vic. I'm sorry you have to go through this. I'm sorry I didn't know. I'm sorry there's nothing I can do. I'm just … so, so sorry." He pressed his lips to the top of my head and held me closer. There was nothing I could say, so we just stayed that way until I drifted off to sleep.

I woke the next morning to the sounds and smell of breakfast. I slowly remembered where I was. Walt's couch. Wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket. Wearing his clothes. Face a mess from crying myself to sleep. Hair a mess from falling to sleep with it wet. I decided to make a vain attempt at minimizing my embarrassment by sneaking off to the bathroom where I tied up my hair, washed my face, and did my best to look resilient. I wrapped Walt's bathrobe around me before joining him in the kitchen. A mug of coffee, made just the way I like it, waited for me. Walt turned toward me as I sat on the stool by his kitchen island.

"How many eggs can you eat this morning? I'm guessing three." He seemed awfully cheerful for a guy who'd spent the evening washing shitty clothes and consoling a formerly knocked-up deputy. "Made bacon, too," he added with a smile.

"You're awfully chipper this morning," I ventured warily, locking eyes with him over my mug. "I didn't know you liked cooking breakfast this much."

"Well, I like eating breakfast," he admitted, returning his gaze to the stove. "And today I get to share it with one of my favorite people, so that makes cooking it not so bad."

I gave him one of my famous head tilts. "Favorite people? Really?"

His gaze turned back to me and he looked almost hurt. "Of course you are." He paused while he flipped the eggs. "Of course you are," he repeated feebly, almost to himself, like he was considering exactly what that meant.

It wasn't long before the eggs were done and he placed two plates on the butcher block, refilled the coffee mugs, and sat on the stool across from me. "Dig in!" he added with that same cheerfulness from a moment ago. I rewarded him with a smile before stuffing my mouth with a forkful of eggs.

After a few moments of silence I managed to speak. "Thank you, Walt." I had to pause for a minute. "I mean it. Thank you. For everything." I didn't have the strength to tell him what everything was, but I had the feeling he knew.

"You're welcome, Vic. You are always welcome." And I knew what he meant, too.