A/N: The prequel to Long Live Longmire and how Walt and Vic came to be. The time frame is about 6 months to a year after Ashes to Ashes and Walt is deciding to move on with his life. In the context of this overall story, it is the prequel to their courtship. As always your reviews and messages are welcome as we go through this journey together. #LongLiveLongmire

I can't be half way with her. I imagine her loving me, the feel of her skin, the tastes of her kisses, the taste of her. I often stop myself from looking at her because I will give myself away but at other times I want to connect. I want to tell her with my eyes, all the things, all the desires, all the hope I have for us.

Vic will demand my full attention. She will demand all of me and I want to give her my all so I am getting ready. Vic has only known me as a broken man, a fractured man, a healing man. I want to be whole and I want all of her.

The thought that she may want me, some small part of me is thrilling but also worried about the very real prospect that I will be a disappointment. I feel that because I feel that about her. How strange it may seem to live with a fantasy, a desire for so long, and finally acknowledging it to myself sets her up to fail. I realize that and I also have the advantage of living long enough to realize that may be very true for her too. Of course, that is assuming she is interested.

Pulling out the floor mats and leaning under the seat checking for debris I can only guess what I may find. There's not much there, partly because I don't really eat in the Bronco and partly because I'm not quite that far gone. I gotta start somewhere, that's what I decided this morning, and thinking about cleaning my cabin, well let's face it, it's dirty, and it was too much to fathom all at once but the Bronco, yeah I can start there. So far I've emptied the glove box and the center storage compartment. I hadn't planned on having a near emotional breakdown while clearing out the compartment but I reached in an pulled out the spool of fishing line. The fishing line that saved Branch's life. That and the hook. If I looked hard enough I could see his blood still on the line wrapped in a tight circle in between the spooled line. I had a choice, keep it as a reminder of the past, the pain, the hurt, the betrayals or throw it away. How did the spool of polyester wire become a metaphor for my life? I don't know how but it I know it is and the choice is mine and only mine just as it is my choice in my life.

I stop, hold the spool in my hand, and look down remembering all the blood. I need a beer. It's Sunday, and I have a couple of six packs in the fridge, ready for football. I break open a Rainer and its gone in three long gulps. Just like coffee the first one is always the best, period, no exceptions. I break open a second and flip on the television searching for any football game. Just the noise will comfort me. Even the annoying sound of Joe Buck's voice is tolerable. That's how bad I feel.

Stepping out on the porch, eying the sparkling clean waxed Bullet, I have a seat and wipe the cold residue of the beer off of my lips with my t-shirt shoulder sleeve. The spool still in my hand. It took the longest getting the years of blood and body fluid out of the back of the Bullet. The tailgate held secrets and witnessed dying declarations. The Native blankets are spinning in the dryer with the hope that fresh scents will erase the horrors of death that have been washed away from their bold colors.

I realize that this is where I mess it up for myself and those that love me because I can't talk about what I think and more importantly what I feel about this. I do feel. I feel deeply and it causes me trouble when I can't contain it, when I can't help keep it from bubbling up and spilling over the side and seeping out of my pores. The only good part, if there's a good, is that I always destroy furniture and not people although those I care about are collateral damage. I get it and I'm trying to fix it by cleaning out the Bronco.

This is going to take forever, I think, but I have to do it because I decided I want to live and I want to get my shit together for not just her but for me. I want to be the best me so I can have the best her. She is the one person that would understand if I could ever get to the point to talk to her. The beer teeters between my thumb and my index finger. It hangs just inside my knee. The black spool rotates in my other hand and I allow my mind to drift envisioning Vic sitting next to me staring into the vast space in front of us. The unexpected whiff of her perfume. I don't know what she wears but I think it's Polo Sport for women. I only guess because I caught myself smelling the tabbed samples in magazines. You know how they perfume the entire magazine. It was during one of my many trips to the hospital and I found myself flipping through a nameless tattered periodical. The remaining scent smelled a little like Vic but without Vic mixed in. That whiff led me to the perfume counter at Macy's in Sheridan. The gift box set and an Eagles baseball cap are her Christmas gifts this year. I figured those were safe office gifts that wouldn't give away the fact that I routinely stand downwind so I can smell her or that I pray she walks by me quickly because it lingers just a bit once she is gone from my sight. To be safe, I got the Ferg a safety razor and Ruby, Chanel No. 5.

I set the fishing line down on the step and get back to scrubbing the floor mats and finish detailing the inside of the Bullet. There were still small spots of white war paint on the dash. They are gone now. All the pain, disappointments, and lost opportunities have been cleaned away. I pull the blankets from the dryer, fold them neatly, and put them back in their rightful place.

This is the first step, I reassure myself, the first step is the hardest. My brain gets it, my heart gets it, although reluctantly for fear, and now my body is compliant. I walk back to the porch with my empty in my hand and stoop to pick up the spool. They both get tossed in the outside trash. I slam the lid down, firmly, to make sure it stays and in a way to prove to the spool and to myself that I mean business.

Thanks HLL for the suggestion that these be stand alone stories under a separate title.