Hi, this story "wrote itself in my head" after the S3E10 finale, when it seemed to me that Vic should be emotionally destroyed by Walt's willingness for vendetta, ignoring her completely in his focused mission to kill Jacob Nighthorse. In a sense, Walt was honoring Ruby's request to "hurt him" (whoever hurt Martha)—to the exclusion of Vic, Cady and Henry. Once S4 was announced, I didn't write it, but after hearing that Sugar's "If I Can't Change Your Mind" was being played in the TV writers' room, it just sort of brought it all back in my head. Look up the lyrics, if not the music, for sadness. This is a "what-if," NOT canon, so please take it as such. It is also first person Vic, which is not fan-fiction norm.

Leaving Durant

Chapter 1

Betrayal

I drove for what seemed like hours, passing out of the county, then the state. I drove north and north, to the land of horse beheadings and through an Indian reservation. Fuck it! My best and maybe only true friend in Durant had just revealed he had been prepared to murder the man who he believed had killed his wife. I had only left him at the behest of his daughter, who was of course the one to rightfully stay with him while he worked through it all.

The only problem with his plan had been, as opposed to his cautions to us deputies over the years about making sure all the pieces fit a puzzle before announcing it solved, he had still not finished that investigation into Martha's death. Instead, he had decided to short-cut that and just take Jacob out without evidence beyond a reasonable doubt. Vigilante, which made my skin crawl.

He also had not expected to come back, leaving Cady, Henry and me…alone and with no closure. Henry and Cady would have to figure out where they stood, but they had both known and loved him for decades. For now, I had to decide where I stood in his life, in my life. I had thought when he asked me to stay, he was asking for more, for me. It seemed I was very mistaken in that assumption, sooo…. Fuck him!

I kept driving. It felt like I might never stop.

The Barlow Connally Ranch shooting brought it all to the forefront. While most of Henry's friends in the Durant area celebrated at his Freed Henry party where I provided security detail, Walt had responded to the call, and somehow gotten there first. According to the EMTs, he had responded even before the 911 call came in.

By the time I got there, he had been standing near Branch, who was moaning, "I'm sorry," over and over, and that his dad had paid to murder Martha Longmire, but I was not sure Walt had really processed all that. He stood before us suddenly grey and broken, eyes unfocused almost glazed, suddenly aged and stooped in pain. He was no longer the tall, vibrant man so sure of and at ease with himself most of the time. Here, he was lost in his head somewhere, but not with us, and most certainly not with me.

I knew he was in shock. Should I slap him like in a soap opera?

"Walt! Walt!" I hissed, voiceless, my hands grasping the front of his shirt, shaking him. I always had better luck using whispers than shouts with him.

He did respond, look down, and I think he vaguely registered me, but the empty look in his eyes just made me want to cry. This man had been, at least for the moment, completely devastated.

He might recover at some point, but he also might well second-guess his gut instincts for the rest of his life. A part of me noticed the ambulances taking both Barlow and Branch to the hospital. Ferg was there, camera hanging from his neck, bending to put markers where the casings were. At that moment, I knew that this was his time to shine.

"Ferg! You're lead on this! Don't fuck it up!"

He looked up, a little alarmed. I jerked my head toward Walt and signaled with my eyes, and it finally dawned on him that Walt wasn't really there.

"Oh. Got it! I'm on it."

Which left me with Walt. I led him over to the Bronco, and he was for that one moment, as docile as a puppy. I had him lean against the hood and sit on the bumper.

"Did you understand Branch?" I said very slowly, as I would to a child.

His eyes, no longer vague as earlier, but intense cobalt flames, met mine for the first time that day.

"It wasn't Jacob? It was Barlow?" his voice was hoarse.

"Don't give Barlow too much credit. He and Jacob were thick as thieves in this, in fact, probably both thieves, and in cahoots with Malachi and company. It bears investigation, Walt. Maybe state level. Feds? Conspiracy to commit murder across state lines? Money laundering across state lines? Isn't Malachi the launderer? We'll get 'em."

He shook his head slowly. He reminded me of a bull moose immediately after the shot, before the bullet does the fatal internal damage and finally takes him down. It was more like disbelief that his life had turned into such a fucking shitty morass.

My hands found his shoulders, this time in support, but he had gone away again.

He suddenly whispered, "Ruby said to hurt him."

"Hurt whom, Ruby said to hurt whom, Walt?" I kept my voice low, like I did with children, the mentally unstable, suspects, men like Walt…

"She said to hurt the man who hurt Martha."

My eyebrows went up in my own variety of disbelief. Ruby, our Ruby said that? Okay…" I was still whispering.

The eyes went vague again. He was scaring the crap out of me. I'd never seen that, even when he'd been hurt, after days in the fucking cold on Ten Sleep, after shooting Chance. Something integral in his belief system had broken, or something already broken but bandaged to walking functionality had now been at least temporarily damaged beyond immediate repair.

"Stay here." I thought he might understand those words, while I went over to have a brief conference with Ferg.

"He's in shock. About Barlow, Martha, probably everything in the last few years. I'm going to take him home. I don't know what else to do with him, it's not a hospital thing, it's emotional not physical."

"Gee, I don't know, Vic. I kind of need you…"

"You'll do fine," I said, and patted his shoulder in what I hoped was a reassuring way. I had no corresponding reassurance for my own situation. "If you have questions, call either me or Ruby, we can both guide you through any issues. If you get overwhelmed and need another pair of hands, call me, and I'll ask Jim Wilkins for a loaner. He owes Walt more than one favor."

"It's so high profile…" he said, still unsure.

"Just do what you have learned to do. Do it well for Absaroka—and for Walt and Branch. If there are any holes, we can fill them in. I've got to get Walt out of here. He's not—fit for duty." I thought of the shows with captains on them, and the first officers relieving them of duty when they were not physically or mentally fit. Shit, this time, as Undersheriff, I was one of those Number Ones. "I'm going to take him in the Bronco, but there are plenty of gloves, forms and bags in my truck if you need them."

"Okay, okay," he said.

I went back to Walt, took his hand again. He seemed unsurprised at that. Another weird non-reaction, but this time I noticed his hand seemed hot and dry. I led him around to the passenger side of the Bullet. The fact that he still followed me without dissent troubled me. I had thought I might have a fight on my hands, and unless I got him in a surprise wrist lock, I knew he could win anything on the physical side. Maybe it was good that he at least trusted me enough to follow—this time.

I peeled out, lights and sirens going. Let the hoi polloi think the Sheriff had another call to answer. I left them on a few minutes before shutting them down. He looked over in question but said nothing as I headed straight for the cabin.

He might not have anything to eat there, but at least I had a phone if we needed to order in. I wouldn't leave him until he righted, or if he did not, we could get him some help. Doc Bloomfield might have some ideas if he got worse.

My eyes went over to him frequently as we drove, but I also noticed a few distinctive things in the course of my observations. His jeans had dusty stuff on them. It looked like human ashes to me, but—shit, it must be—Martha's? His rifle was loaded, had the safety off. I was guessing his duty weapon had its safety off as well—I noticed as I led him to the Bronco that the strap had been released. I thought about asking him to correct those, but given his mental state, left well enough alone. We'd fix all that when we stopped. And he seemed…disheveled, mentally unprepared.

I made the turn to the cabin at a slower pace.

"Why are you bringing me home?" he asked. Good. Real words, ones that made sense.

"Pit stop. Give us a little time to process this latest disaster. I'll call the hospital for an update after we get you comfortable there."

He turned a little, his head tilted. "Why are we getting me comfortable there? Shouldn't we be headed to the hospital?" That was so Walt, ever mindful of his duty. Yes, we owed it to Branch, but this wasn't the Walt he needed.

"I—," I tried to frame the reference, take it out of his court. "I need a little time to figure this out, Walt. We'll stay in contact and go to the hospital—when we're ready."

"Okay," he said, seemingly in relief. Decision made for him, it was at the moment out of his hands, and he could go back inside his head. Hopefully I could help him through and come back out of same head before he made any decisions like his earlier ones with the weaponry.

But who would help me?—if what I believed was true, was indeed truth. Whatever I did in the next 48 hours would be either the making—or the breaking—of Walt and me, as partners, as friends, as future lovers. Something was so incredibly wrong, here.