(A/N Written in July)
A/N: About this snippet, some things just need to be said. Sometimes they are not easy to say, or to promise. Since this was written pre-Season 4, I was going to use it in Survival, but I will date it to WELL past S4, now…
After (not binge-watching, but…I have seen it) Season 4, I sent a post to Tony Tost and Craig Johnson a few days ago, saying regarding Season 4, they were Lucy with the football, and WIC-shippers were Charlie Brown. Sheesh, how could they pull the rug out from under us so completely? Oh, they're the writers, and they are *supposed* to torture the characters sufficiently to make us appreciate the end game, right? If so, they have a LOT of work to do, many seasons worth...
Hoping Season 5 will be announced and something magical written to heal the mess. Meanwhile, (what I hope will be) a palate-cleansing snippet, and I will have a long preface for Ch 2 of BTB, then resume that story.
(Written Sumer, 2015)
Fears
Vic stood in the doorway of Walt's closet, which extended along the back of the bedroom like a false wall, and insulated the room as a second line of defense from the rear, the exterior of the cabin exposed to the elements. The closet was mostly empty except for a few boxes, and quite a few hanging items. Most of them were womanly, and she didn't touch them.
Alone and away from them was his dress uniform, back from the cleaners and pressed, sitting untouched and unmourned in a garment bag.
He was suddenly behind, arms snaking around, his lips against the hollow of her neck. He had just emerged from the shower, was wearing only jeans, and a lovely damp, warm hairy torso enveloped her.
"Walt…" she hesitated. It had been weighing on her all week.
She could feel it, he didn't understand her hesitation, yet.
"Walt…" she tried again, as he moved his nuzzling to the nape of her neck. "We need to talk about Portman." At the name, he loosened his arms and took a step back, head canted in question.
Well, it was inevitable, she had managed to kill the mood with that one name. Maybe she could rekindle it later. She swiveled to face him, his face unreadable at the moment.
"What about him?"
Ricky Portman had been a second year state trooper and taken one in the face the week before during a routine traffic stop. His funeral was going to be held over in Cumberland County, and Jim Wilkins had particularly asked they attend, especially after Absaroka having lost one of its own in the past year.
"We should go. In uniform. Our families would expect no less from fellow officers around the state if something happened to either one of us. I hope our last wishes would be carried out."
His jaw clenched, and she ran her palm along it to relax him a little.
"That's why we need to talk."
His eyes came up to meet hers. "We do?"
She nodded. "When Sean and I got married in Philly, I made a living will, DNR, etc…just in case. HR there required it, in Philly, there was a higher percentage or probability of that happening than out here, but after Chance, after this... I thought since I'm staying, it's maybe time to update it out here. I've kind of been putting it off, but now, after Branch, and now Portman…if something ever happened to me…"
"No." His voice was soft, and he was buried in her neck again, but this time, for comfort, not passion. Whether for his comfort or hers, she wasn't quite sure.
"You have one, right? For Cady, or Cady and Henry?"
"I haven't changed it since Martha. I…after she died, I didn't know if I'd ever need to."
A chill ran through her, hoping he had stepped far enough back from that abyss of daring death and risk-taking and might now reconsider addressing that decision. "Well…at least consider it for Cady and Henry's sakes. I know we're not…"
"We're not?"
"We're not official in any way, but I'd like to know…what you would like."
He shrugged. He was quiet for a long time. Finally he said in a low, broken voice, "Not to mourn me forever. For you to watch over Cady and Henry for me."
"Buried? Cremated?"
"Why are you asking now?"
"Because Richard Portman is dead, and his family is winging it. He was only twenty-four."
"Oh."
"Oh, and I thought I'd tell you, cremate me and don't fucking mourn me like you did Martha. I've lived how I wanted to live, and if I don't make it, I've died trying to live it like I wanted, with whom I've wanted."
"Don't say things like that." He held her closer, but did not add anything to that.
She poked him, trying to lighten things, but his grip was like iron.
"Hey." A sudden inspiration flowed over her. She asked tentatively, "Would you want your ashes scattered near Martha?"
It seemed to wake him up. "No!"
"Buried, then?"
"No—"
"Then what?"
"With you. Just keep the ashes somewhere closer, like we are now, together every day." He was quiet a little while. "Vic…when you were at Chance's…I don't know what I would have done if he'd killed you. Gone beserk, probably. I told Gorski the trooper wouldn't be the only man going down."
She faltered at this. "When I drove up the canyon, I was hoping against hope I wouldn't need a body bag for you. I could care less whether Chance needed one."
"Don't leave me, Vic." He enveloped her.
"I won't by choice, but don't leave me, either, at least for thirty-odd years. When we're that old, let's take stock again." She clung to him.
"We'll put it on the calendar."
She poked him again.
"I mean about seeing Steve about DNRs and wills and such. I'll tell Ruby tomorrow." Problem solved, he lightly kissed her brow, her cheek, the corner of her mouth with those clever roving lips, and she realized the mood, if having not completely returned, was on the mend. Well, all right, then.