I'm pretty sure you'd call this AU, though I'm not entirely straight on the boundaries between just plain old fanfiction and alternate universe fanfiction. To be clear, this stuff didn't happen, and it is entirely inconsistent with what did happen. It starts before Season 1, and it's the way I would have handled the Walt/Vic part of the storyline without making the romance (much) more prominent than it already is.
The magic of this pairing is sort of gone for me. This is my desperate attempt to bring it back, if only for a little while. Plus I'm overwhelmed with work and adulthood, and this is how I escape it. : )
I don't know how long it will be or how often I will update.
Oh, and you should read Pablo Naruda's poem "If You Forget Me." It reminds me of them.
Chapter 1
He gets in the truck, out of the wind, but she stays to watch them secure the gurney.
Red light spins and bounces off the wet asphalt as the driver closes the rear doors on the tech in the back with the boy. Stepping to the shoulder next to the mangled motorcycle, she wraps her arms tighter around herself. For a time, it's only the sound of the wind and the hum and whoosh of tires from the northbound side of the highway. Then the diesel coughs and the emergency brake sighs and a single chirp of siren cuts the air.
She feels his eyes on her back.
When the ambulance moves, and the siren begins to whine, she walks over to the Bronco.
"You all right?" he asks once the door's shut and she's reaching for the seatbelt.
"I'm fine," she says.
"He'll be okay."
"I know."
She wants to tell him to back the fuck off, but she barely knows him, and she's not sure what her problem is anyway.
He pulls out onto the highway, right hand high on the wheel.
She could've done worse for a boss, she guesses. He's glum and self-involved, but fun to talk to sometimes. And for a backwoods, small-town sheriff, he is kind of a badass. She spends too much time with him, more than she's ever spent with anyone, but that's the nature of a job like this, way out here. At least it's easy between them. It feels familiar.
He's quiet for a while, driving south towards town, squinting into the oncoming headlights. Her shift ended two hours ago. She doesn't even try to turn on the radio.
"How long has he been gone?" he asks when they're almost there.
She's taken off guard. She didn't know he knew.
He glances at her.
"Five days," she says.
"Australia?"
"Mm-hmm."
He takes his right hand off the wheel and puts it on his thigh.
"If you need anything, Vic."
"I'm fine."
He puts the hand back.
"But thanks."
He looks over his arm at her briefly again.
A minute or two later, she says, "I don't miss him."
"You don't have to miss him to feel bad about it."
"So they say."
"Do they say that?" he says.
"I don't think so."
He tells her to go home, he'll take care of the report. She does know him well enough to know she'll just end up doing it herself tomorrow. Besides, she's in no hurry.
When she's finished, she goes to his door. He's staring down at his desk. She knocks and his head snaps up. He's red-eyed and far away.
"Sorry," she says. "I didn't mean to—"
He shakes his head, standing up.
"No," he says. He sort of smiles, like if he had more energy he'd feel embarrassed. "It's fine."
"Can I change my mind?"
"About what?"
"Needing anything."
/
He doesn't seem like a pizza kind of guy, but she orders one anyway, with meat. It's late; she has to offer him something. He shows up when he said he would in a different jacket and without the hat. The shirt might be different, too. He's got a six pack of beer with him.
He pulls one off at the front step and hands it up to her.
"I don't know if you drink beer," he says with half an awkward smile.
She takes it. "I do. Thanks."
Having him in her living room makes the ceiling seem lower. She feels filleted and raw and laid bare for him to judge at close range, but he's not focused on her.
"It won't fit there," he says, pointing to the far wall where she wants the couch. "Got a tape measure?"
She gets one from the garage, and it turns out he's right. She rethinks the design while he pops open another beer and studies the framed panorama of the Philadelphia skyline.
Her new plan is better.
When the pizza arrives they sit on the couch in its new location with the box on the coffee table. He stares up at the TV like he's not sure what it is.
"You want to play with it?" she says and immediately cringes.
He doesn't notice.
"May I?" he says.
A slice of pizza in one hand and the remote in the other, he flips through the channels.
"There used to be five," he says.
"Yeah, well, there's still never anything on."
It takes him a few minutes to confirm that for himself.
He shuts it off and puts the remote down between them. He drains his beer, but instead of getting up to go like she expects him to, he crushes the can in his hand and puts it on the coffee table then sits back on the couch.
She's thrown.
"I think I have another beer in the fridge," she says. "Bud Light. If you want one."
"You trying to get me drunk?" he says in that oddly playful tone he gets.
She raises her eyebrows at him. With almost any other man, she'd have a quick comeback, but she can never figure him out. She's not sure if he knows how it sounds.
"That'd be great," he says.
She gets the last two beers from the fridge, hands him one, then sits in the chair across from the couch.
"It gets better," he says.
"What does?"
"The loss."
His eyes dart to her face then down to the bottle. He twists the cap off.
"Is it getting better for you?" she asks.
He takes a deep breath and his brow furrows. In the short time she's known him, she's gotten used to this rhythm.
"No," he finally says, making eye contact and keeping it.
With a trace of a distant smile on his face, he tips his beer in her direction as if he's toasting her.
"I don't know," he says. "Maybe it is. You either move forward or you don't."
"You're still here," she says.
He takes a long drink then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
"So are you."