A/N: many thanks to ziparumpazoo for encouragement, insights, and heroic patience in the face of, well, me. ordinarily i don't write sequels; when i'm done with a story, i'm done. but while i was writing 'rough flavors' i ended up with a few bits that fit into a later timeframe, and now here we are. for the purposes of this fic, walt hasn't told dave to settle the lawsuit.
We are not the wood
any more than the fire, but the heat which is a marriage
between the two.
Jack Gilbert, Music Is Only In The Piano When It's Played
...
Vic doesn't see Walt again until the next morning. The reprieve gives her time to shore up some of her usual defenses, claw back some lost dignity. It's not much, but it's enough so that when he walks into the office she's able to glance up from her desk and greet him like it's any other day. And though her heart is rabbiting inside her chest, she's certain that no one can tell.
Nothing to see here. Move along.
An hour or so later she heads to his office. The door's closed, which is unusual for this time of day. She knocks, opens it, and sticks her head in just as she's always done. Walt's not at his desk as she expected but standing in front of the window.
"Got a minute?" she asks when he turns to her.
"Sure."
Any other day, she repeats to herself as she walks in and closes the door behind her. The sun's so bright at his back this morning that if she lets her eyes unfocus enough his eyes are just a dark blur.
It still feels dangerous to look.
"What's up?" he says and she realizes she's just been standing there, not-looking at him.
Vic folds her arms, hoping the motion doesn't appear as defensive as it feels. "Um, well, I wanted to say I'm sorry about yesterday. The deposition. It, uh, didn't go the way that I expected it to." She pauses for a beat, trying to read him but getting nothing. "Anyway, I probably made things a lot worse and... I'm sorry."
He tilts his head as if he's giving it some thought. "You told the truth, Vic. That's all anybody can do."
It's so typical of him that she feels something like the urge to laugh. Walt Longmire is a man who's good with a non-answer. In another life, under different circumstances, she thinks he'd actually make a good politician. His evasions never sound evasive unless you know how to listen. They're true enough and vague enough to seem satisfying, but they never quite address what matters.
The sound building in Vic's throat isn't a laugh, though. It's larger and sharper-edged and it burns like acid. She wants to shout at him to just tell her what he means, what he feels, just fucking talk to her about something real. Is he angry? Does he blame her? Does he forgive her? Is he embarrassed by what came spilling out when Tucker Baggett eviscerated her yesterday?
But even if she asked, Walt wouldn't tell her what she wants to know. She's bruised and bloodied herself against that wall before.
"Right," she says, as non-committal as him, looking somewhere easier than his face. The old walls and floorboards of his office gleam where the sun spreads gently across them. This room always used to feel safe to her, comforting, with all the light and the wood. And him. Now she just wants to get out. "Well, that's all I—"
Walt takes a step forward, interrupts her. "Dave seems to think he can make it work to our advantage. That your honesty and, uh, integrity will go over well with a jury."
A jury. Fuck. When this goes to trial she'll have to go through it all over again in front of a jury. And a judge. And whoever else shows up to court that day. Somehow she'd forgotten that part. "Oh. That... that's good, I guess."
"And, uh, he also mentioned wanting to give you a standing ovation for the way you handled Tucker."
Her gaze flies to his as she huffs a disbelieving laugh. Walt's mouth quirks in a barely-there grin. It's just a fleeting moment, but they share it.
And there's the danger again.
Vic half turns to the door. With him these days she relies on flight, not fight. "So I should get back to work."
For a few seconds Walt's face is blank, as if it's a statement that requires some time to process. Eventually, he nods. "Okay."
"Okay," she echoes.
It's not, of course. But they're both good at pretending.
...
Walt takes a few days off without warning or explanation. Instead of demanding answers to questions like "Why?" and "What the hell do you think you're doing?" the way she once would have, Vic simply tells Ruby, as instructed, and lets it pass without comment.
By the time he's back at work she's able to look him in the eye again. Small victories, she's learning, are better than none.
Walt never offers more information about the lawsuit and Vic never asks. There's no further discussion of her deposition. For once she's grateful that he tends to repress and ignore anything he doesn't want to deal with. Then again, it could be that it's not very important to him; or that someone else's deposition has superseded hers in its level of disaster. Whatever the reason, it becomes one more undercurrent in the river Vic wades through daily just trying to do her job.
No wonder she's exhausted all the time.
Still, after a couple of weeks everything seems to be back to what passes for normal for all of them now. The only real change is that Ruby isn't handing out as many post-it messages from 'The Doc' anymore — or any, actually — which most likely means Walt's seeing Donna in person more often. And that's something Vic is determined not to think about.
As he told her, it's none of her business.
As she told him, she's moving on.
...
Just before 7 p.m. Vic finishes the paperwork on her latest B&E. She's seriously considering trying to convince Walt to let her set up some sort of community outreach program to educate the fine citizens of Absaroka County about the importance of locking their goddamn doors. Then again, it might be better coming from Ferg.
She makes a note to talk to Ferg about it in the morning, then stands and tries to stretch out the dull ache in her lower back. Everyone else has already gone home for the day and the only light left on in the office is her desk lamp. A muted glow shines through the 'No Admittance' door's glass and the streetlights outside paint shadows on the floor.
Vic likes being here on her own at night. Despite the presence of the cell and the freaky deer head mounted on the wall, it feels cozy and peaceful. Back when she and Sean were still together and fighting all the time, she sometimes thought about just moving in and waiting to see how long it took anyone to notice.
Tonight, however, she's going home to her equally cozy, though not quite as peaceful, RV and the leftover lasagna in her fridge. For some reason she's been extra hungry lately and she was dreaming about that lasagna for the whole damn day. Move over sex fantasies, she thinks with a twist of her lips. Food fantasies are safer.
Her last stop for the night is Walt's office to drop the paperwork on his desk so he can sign off on it in the morning. Or whenever he gets around to it. Every day it's becoming easier to remember that it's not her job to make sure he does his. It's not her job to take care of him.
Vic rubs her back absently as she opens the door, then pulls up short with a twitch of surprise. "Oh, hey. I thought you left."
He's wearing a different shirt than he was earlier. As she walks into the room, she sees he's clean-shaven, too. She refuses to think about the reason for either of those things. Of more interest to her is the difference in his manner lately that she hasn't been able to explain. It's nothing specific she can pinpoint, only a nebulous feeling that he's more aware in some indefinable way, that he's paying more attention. Or maybe this is just what he's like when he's getting laid on the regular.
Walt taps his finger on the desk. "Yeah, I did. I, uh, forgot something."
Once upon a time she would've made a smartass comment right now. Something like, You forgot to check off 'sitting at my empty desk' on your to-do list today? But that's not how they are anymore, she and Walt.
So Vic simply hands him the file. "That's the Stark B&E. I'm heading out now, see you tomorrow."
He's looking down at the paperwork as she turns to go, but she's used to him being unresponsive when it comes to normal human conversation and doesn't think anything of it.
She's almost reached the door when he says, "Vic, uh, do you want to get some dinner?"
It doesn't really register at first. Her brain processes the general idea — does she want food? — but she's tired and her back hurts and she's thinking of lasagna. So when she says, "No, I'm good. I've got a hot date with some leftovers tonight," it's just a stupid joke, just a common turn of phrase.
Then the word 'date' clicks in her mind like the last number of a combination lock and a new door swings open.
She turns again and finds Walt with the slightly glazed look he sometimes has when things get personal. That's confirmation enough for her. This isn't about the boss feeding the help; this is an invitation.
"Jesus," she says. "Do I seem that pathetic to you?"
"What? Vic, no—"
"I don't need your pity, Walt, all right?"
He stands up and starts around his desk and she can't help it, she takes a step back. Something that might be hurt flashes across his face, but he stays where he is.
"That's not what I— I just thought, uh, we could talk."
Vic stares at him in disbelief. "Now you want to talk? Seriously?"
"Well, a lot's happened since, um..."
"Nothing has happened, Walt. Nothing. You made yourself clear the last time we talked—" she can't help the bitter inflection she puts on the word "—and I got the message. What I said at the deposition, that wasn't some desperate attempt to, I don't know, get your attention. You've got nothing to worry about from me."
He looks away, out the darkened window, and nods slightly.
Vic hates the part of herself that wants him to contradict her, wants him to say, no, wait, he's changed his mind. But that's her problem, not his, and he doesn't deserve to suffer because of whatever misguided impulse has prompted this. So after a long moment of watching him flounder around inside his head, she rewinds the last few minutes to start them over.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Walt."
He shows no sign that he's heard her.
She's used to it now.
...
All the way home her stomach curdles with embarrassment and anger. A fucking pity date. That's what it's come to. Or not even that; it's actually worse. A 'sorry you're into me and I'm not into you but we have to work together so let's try to pretend the situation isn't as awkward as we both know it is' non-date. This is what he thinks of her now.
And here she was thinking everything was getting better.
Vic heats up her lasagna but only manages a few mouthfuls before her stomach refuses the rest. So there's another reason to be pissed at Walt. It was supposed to be a good night; she was looking forward to it. Instead it's sour with disappointment.
Why can't she just get over this? She doesn't want to love him anymore; she doesn't want to keep hurting. But no matter how hard she works at it, the slightest move from him can unbalance her hard-won equilibrium. Then she has to start all over again.
And she can't even hate him for it.
Herself, though? Yeah, Vic can hate herself. Everyone has a skill.
She decides she needs to get out of her head for a while, and she definitely needs to get Walt out of there. This moving on thing is a constant work in progress and it's time to take a break. So she'll go out. She'll have a drink and flirt and let some cowboy try to pick her up. Maybe she'll even let him succeed and go back to his place for what will probably be mediocre sex. As a distraction, it's better than nothing.
Either way there'll be no expectations to disappoint and no feelings to hurt.
Vic's learned she can't be trusted with those.
...
The guy — Darren? David? it definitely starts with a D — has just bought her a drink and she's smiling at whatever story he's telling her like it's the most fascinating thing she's ever heard. He's young, and cute in that wholesome 'aw shucks' way a lot of guys around here are. Sandy hair, earnest brown eyes, nice smile.
Vic thinks she's looking fairly wholesome herself, considering. Her makeup's a little heavier than normal, but still low-key; she's wearing her usual jeans and boots; her hair's still in a ponytail. The difference tonight is her sweater: new and pink and off-the-shoulder. It's absolutely demure by her standards and not at all the sort of thing she ordinarily wears, but it makes her feel pretty. If the way this guy's been checking her out is any indication, she looks it, too.
And she wants to scream because she feels absolutely no interest. Not the tiniest flicker.
But she keeps a smile and an interested expression on her face as she sips her drink because the alternative is sitting at home feeling sorry for herself. If nothing else, it's gratifying to be wanted for a little while.
Twenty minutes later and the guy (what the hell is his name?) has finally started making some moves. Vic still isn't feeling any particular interest, but he has nice hands and he's not a moron, so he's about to get lucky if he'll just hurry it on up.
One of those nice hands is spreading warmth up her thigh and she's leaning into his space encouragingly when she senses a change, like a sudden drop in barometric pressure.
She looks up and there's Walt. Staring right at her.
Fuck.
He walks over in full sheriff mode and stands closer than is really necessary. The Pony isn't that busy tonight.
"Vic," he says in greeting, then nods at Donald? Dennis? who yanks his hand from her leg and jumps to his feet like he's coming to attention.
"Sheriff!" says Dexter? Daniel? with his eyes darting back and forth between them. "Uh, why don't you take my seat? I was just about to go."
"No need to leave on my account," Walt says magnanimously.
Vic seriously considers punching him. In the balls.
"No, sir, no, not at all." The guy, who she's now just going to call Dipshit, turns to her and tips his hat. "Nice talking with you ma'am." Another hat tip for Walt. "Sheriff."
And there go her prospects of getting laid for the evening.
"Friend of yours?" Walt asks.
She stares at him hard, trying to set him on fire with her mind. It doesn't work. "Well, now we'll never know."
"Sorry."
He isn't. Not remotely.
She downs what's left of her drink and slides off the stool.
"You're leaving?"
"No point staying."
"Vic," he says, taking hold of her upper arm lightly.
Anger boils up from somewhere inside her, hot enough to scald. She looks from his hand to his face and back to his hand again. "You're gonna want to move that."
He lets go.
She walks out.
Six steps across the parking lot she remembers her car's not here because she took a cab. "Shit." She turns around and of course Walt's right behind her. "What, are you stalking me now?" she demands.
"For the record, I didn't know you were here tonight, Vic. I didn't see your truck."
"I took a cab."
She watches him digest that for a moment.
Yeah, buddy, for exactly the reason you're thinking.
Turning again, she pulls out her phone and scrolls for the number of the single cab in the county as she walks the rest of the way across the parking lot.
Gravel crunches behind her. "Vic, wait."
What rises inside her is so far beyond anger it has no name. It's a fist punching up through her chest and into her throat, shattering whatever's in its way. It's a huge, howling vacancy, and it wants to burn the world.
She whirls and stalks back towards him along the line of parked cars. "No, Walt, I will not wait. I am done waiting for you. I'm off duty and you have no right to my time. I'm not at your fucking beck and call and I don't owe you anything. Do you understand that?"
A car turns into the lot and its headlights sweep across them in an arc. The direct lights are blinding and Vic has to turn her head and blink several times to let her eyes adjust. When they do, Walt's still looking right at her.
"Yes," he says, with an odd intensity. "I understand."
It throws her off a little, the acknowledgement. "Okay, good," she says after a few seconds. "So I'm going home."
"At least let me give you a ride. Please, Vic."
She studies him in the neon light of the Red Pony's signs. The fist in her chest is already shrinking, sinking back into whatever dark place it grew. Walt is watching her, patient in that steady way of his, as if the only thing he wants to do is wait for her to find an answer, however long it takes.
"Do you even know where I live?"
"Yeah."
She almost asks him how, because she's certainly never told him, but of course he has access to her details at work. He must have looked it up, or asked Ruby, for some reason.
That's something to think about later, though, because there's an issue it seems he's forgotten. Vic tries to make a joke of it for both their sakes. "First you invite me to dinner and now you want to drive me home? I'm not sure your girlfriend would be too happy about that." And she smiles like she doesn't give a damn because one of these days that'll be true.
For the first time since he showed up, Walt looks less than sure of himself. "Uh, I don't. Have a girlfriend."
The words refuse to make sense. "What?"
"I'm not seeing Donna anymore."
"Oh." It feels as if the world has tilted a fraction and Vic can't quite find her balance at this new angle. "Are you, um... are you okay?"
He gives her this funny little smile she can't interpret. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. Thanks."
And he does seem okay. Not faking it or closed off or shut down. It could be denial. Vic can't believe that he's as fine as he seems — after all, she was there when Donna was missing and in the aftermath; she saw exactly how he felt — so maybe it just hasn't sunk in yet.
She clears her throat, searching for something supportive or at least friendly to say, when he steps closer.
"So, uh, can I give you a ride home?"
Walt's rapid change of topic gives her mental whiplash. He's been swerving ahead of her all night and leaving her lagging behind, struggling to follow.
"Um, sure. A ride would be good."
She trails him back across the parking lot in silence, trying to navigate the confusing mess of her feelings. What, Vic wonders, is the appropriate emotional response when you find out that the guy you're in love with just got dumped by his girlfriend, whom you happen to utterly loathe? And he's already made it clear he's not looking at you to fill any vacancies?
It's probably obvious to anyone paying attention that she doesn't like Donna Monaghan and never has. The dislike isn't rooted in jealousy, despite how it might look to someone else; that came later. In the beginning it was just a gut feeling that the woman couldn't be trusted, that she was hiding things. Walt had seemed to agree at the time of the drug theft investigation. For some reason he gave all of it a pass later on.
Not that Walt himself hasn't had plenty of his own secrets. Not that Vic hasn't had hers. But she's never doubted she could trust him. She's never doubted that he had her back. So maybe it's just what you do when you love somebody; you let them keep their secrets. You keep them too.
Ahead of her, Walt unlocks the Bronco. By the time they're both inside, she's shivering. "Fuck, how did I not notice how cold it is out there?"
He blasts the heater and turns all the vents her way as she huddles in on herself. There's some movement in her peripheral vision and then he says, "Here." He's holding out his coat.
"No, it's fine—"
"Just take it, Vic. You're cold."
And she is. So she does.
She drapes it over herself like a blanket, tucking it up around her neck to cover her bare shoulders. Its texture and scent are so familiar but she's never been wrapped in it before. The feeling is somehow illicit, like a counterfeit embrace. Some ersatz intimacy.
There have always been boundaries she and Walt have only crossed in times of crisis. Touch is one. Even casual physical contact between them feels forbidden. What should be natural comes weighted with too much meaning to be passed off as insignificant, at least for her. Vic has no idea what Walt's reasons might be.
They drive in silence for a while. She lets herself be lulled by the warmth and feels her tense muscles turning lax. After a few more minutes it's a little too warm and she pushes Walt's coat off her shoulders, letting it puddle in her lap.
His voice, when he speaks, startles her. "You, uh, you look really nice."
She turns her head to stare at him in shock. Not once in the years she's known him has Walt given her a compliment that wasn't about work. And even those are rare.
"Thank you," she manages.
"Sorry if I ruined your night." He actually sounds sincere this time.
"It probably wouldn't have been much of a night anyway." Vic sighs then laughs a little. "Although I think you might've ruined Dipshit's."
Walt glances over at her. "Dipshit?"
"The guy at the Red Pony," she explains. "I couldn't remember his name except that it started with D, so I improvised."
Walt chuckles and she grins.
This is how they used to be, back when they were friends. She shifts a little, angling herself toward him so she can see his profile by the light of the dashboard without turning her head. Something has eased between them tonight, some tension has bled away, and being with him feels natural again. The change loosens her tongue.
"Walt, why are you doing this?"
"Driving you home?"
"And inviting me to dinner."
"I just wanted a chance to talk to you, Vic. That's all."
"You can talk to me at work."
He glances at her. "Yeah, I know. It's not about work."
"So what's it about?" she asks, even as she's imagining possible motives for Walt to butter her up. Maybe he needs a kidney. Maybe Cady does.
His hands flex and release on the steering wheel. "I've been doing some thinking lately—"
Vic can't help herself. "You? No."
The corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile. "I've been thinking about a mistake I made a couple of months ago."
And it's only now she sees the danger looming, imminent, only now she feels it in the way her stomach erupts with the mad beating of wings.
Walt goes on, oblivious. "I, uh, hurt somebody that I... that I care about. And I'm hoping I can make it right. I want to try."
No, Vic thinks. Oh, no.
Her heart picks up speed, trying to outrun what's coming. She turns head on to face the road in front of them, as if staring down the future will blunt the collision.
"What mistake?" she asks, and braces.
Three, two, one...
"You and me, Vic. Us."
Impact.
"There is no 'us,' Walt," she says quietly, proud of how level her voice sounds. "You drew the line."
"I know." He takes a deep breath and blows it out. "I know. That was... I was wrong."
And the pain cuts so much deeper because of the irony. It's exactly what she'd wanted him to say only a few hours before. What she's wanted him to say every day since he broke her heart in an alley two months ago. But the words now are tainted. They're not about her. As much as she loves him, she won't be Walt's rebound or fallback girl, won't be just a soft place for him to land and nurse his wounds. She deserves more than that.
Still, it's hard to give up her last bit of hope; it's even harder to disappoint him. She makes her voice as gentle as she can. "I know you just got dumped, and I'm sorry you're hurting, but you can't—"
For the second time tonight, Walt cuts her off. "I broke up with her," he says. "A few weeks ago."
Vic turns to stare at him again. "A few weeks ago," she repeats slowly. Her lungs feel tight.
"Yep."
"As in before you took that time off?"
This answer takes longer. "Yeah."
"Before my deposition?"
He's silent for so long she thinks he's not going to answer at all. And that itself is answer enough. Then he says, "No."
"Oh, Jesus Christ," she breathes. The world isn't just tilted now. It's been turned upside down and shaken like a fucking snow globe. Her stomach feels queasy. "So I humiliate myself and you suddenly decide..." She can't even finish the sentence.
"No," Walt says firmly. "What you did... that took a lot of courage, Vic. You stood up to Tucker Baggett. He's the one who should be humiliated, not you."
She laughs but there's no humor in the sound. It comes out like a choked-off sob. She's getting dizzy, having a hard time catching her breath. "Are you telling me that you broke up with Donna because I was forced to admit that I'm in love with you? What the fuck, Walt? It's not like you didn't already know that! It's not like it was a goddamn revelation!"
"I didn't know, Vic. Not... you were with Eamonn and—"
"Don't give me that bullshit. Sean knew. Ed Gorski knew. Fucking Chance Gilbert knew! So don't tell me you didn't know."
Walt says something but she can't hear him. Her ears are filled with tinny buzzing like distant radio static. Everything begins to expand. Everything closes in. Her breath is coming too fast and too shallow. She needs space. She needs somewhere to hide. She needs to be able to move.
"Pull over," she commands.
"What?"
"I said pull over!"
Walt brakes and comes to a stop on the side of the road. "Vic, what's wrong?"
She scrabbles frantically at her seat belt, at the door to get it open, and practically hurls herself out of the truck. Then she's stumbling through waist high weeds to break free, but even in all this emptiness infinity contracts around her.
Darkness licks at her skin like a hungry animal. The stars press down with suffocating weight.
A sound behind her—a sharp, hard report—and then she's running.
can't stop can't stop can't (The useless meat of her heart hammers.)
"Vic, where are you going?"
stop can't stop can't stop (The empty sacs of her lungs burn.)
Something grabs her out of nothing and she's — falling, twisting, wrenching, gasping — standing in an open field.
Time disjointed. Moments as mismatched fragments. Tesserae. Pick them up or set them aside and the picture changes. Without the pattern it's a jumble of stones leading nowhere.
"What the hell are you doing, Vic?"
Walt.
He's panting; they both are. Their breath mists in the air between them. It's freezing and neither of them is wearing a coat. Her hands make fists inside the sleeves of her sweater. The wind sears her neck and exposed shoulders. His hat is gone.
And.
Her heart is a bomb; her heart is thunder. Her body is missing; her body is glass. A void stretches before her, waiting to swallow. She will crumble to sand and be blown away. Her toes grip right on the edge of the precipice. A single movement and everything shatters.
Then.
He reaches for her across a great distance. He gives her his flesh and blood hand. "Come back to the truck, Vic. It's cold out here."
It is. It is cold. She is.
His touch on her arm finds her; the curve of his fingers describes her shape. He's so tall that he holds up the sky. The stars lift. The void recedes. He moves closer. He enfolds her.
Time.
Walt rubs her back with long, steady strokes. He's warm; he feels substantial and real. Vic concentrates on his voice cutting through the white noise in her head.
"Just breathe," he's saying. "In and out. You're okay. Deep breaths, that's the way. I've got you."
Slowly, slowly, the madly spinning world gives up its momentum. Her lungs fill and empty, fill and empty. Her mind clears.
And then a single thought emerges.
Oh, fuck.
This is something she's never wanted Walt to see.
They stand together for a span of time measured only by the metronome passage of his hand on her back. When Vic loosens her grip and begins to ease away, his arms release her gradually. Gooseflesh rises on her chilled skin along the paths of his fading warmth.
"Are you okay to walk?" he asks, and she nods mutely.
It's a long trek back. In the bubble of her panic, she'd run a hell of a lot farther than she'd realized. Adrenaline still buzzes in her blood, leaving her legs shaky and unsteady, and Walt keeps his arm around her the whole way. She feels flayed open and raw, utterly exposed, but his solid presence acts as both comfort and refuge. The ordinary effort of putting one foot in front of the other is grounding.
When they climb into the Bronco he makes her take his coat again and she doesn't even try to protest. The heat's on high and the engine idles while Vic tries to rub some feeling back into her hands. Her ears and cheeks sting, her throat hurts, and her nose is numb. She can't imagine how cold Walt must be wearing only his shirt.
He digs out a bottle of water from somewhere and passes it to her.
"Thanks," she says, and speaking feels awkward, as though it's been months since her tongue formed words. "Sorry about..." Being broken? A liability? "...that."
"Vic," he says. His voice is layered with meaning.
She uncaps the bottle and takes a few swallows. The water feels good in her throat. Walt angles himself toward her, one long arm resting across the back of the seat.
"Do you have them often?" he asks. "Panic attacks."
His directness surprises her. "Not really. Not usually that bad." She picks at the label on the bottle with her thumb. "How'd you know?" And then she thinks Donna and wishes she hadn't asked.
But all he says is, "Been doing some reading."
Vic nods and drinks more water, unsure what to do now. There's never been anyone with her in the aftermath before. She's used to gathering the scatters of herself on her own, curling into a ball like a pill bug until it's safe again. There's always a sense of disconnection from everything for a while, of feeling inert like a blown fuse. But having Walt here — it's something unexpected. He's an anchor keeping her securely in place.
After a minute he asks, "Do you know what triggers them?"
"Um, nightmares sometimes," she says. "Those were mostly in the beginning. Now I think it's more like... overload. Things get to be too much and I guess it sort of short-circuits something." She shrugs. "I didn't really eat tonight, either, so that probably doesn't help."
"We can stop and get something on the way home if you want."
On the way home. The way he says it, as if home is the same place for both of them, ignites a tiny spark inside her.
Vic summons up a smile and looks over at him. "I really do have some leftovers in the fridge. I just didn't feel like eating earlier."
"Okay."
She leans her head back against the seat and closes her eyes. "Did you ever have them?" she finds herself asking.
"No, not those. Flashbacks, sometimes, a few years back. But not for a while now."
"That's good. I mean it's good that they stopped."
"Yeah." There's a pause, and she can feel the weight of his attention. "It doesn't make you weak, Vic."
Her fingers reach up to stroke the white stitches on the sleeve of his coat like worry beads. "I know." But she's learned that knowing and believing are very different things.
"Have you talked to anyone about what you went through?"
"Have you?" she challenges, turning her head to meet his eyes.
"No," Walt admits. "But I should have. I wish I had."
Incredulity swirls through her with a feeling like vertigo. "You do?"
He nods. "I've, uh, started to understand the damage it did, trying to ignore everything that happened. Not just to me but to the people I care about." His gaze doesn't waver from hers.
"Wow," she says, reeling. "That's a... big change from you."
"I know," he agrees. "I saw a, um, different perspective recently and it made me realize that the way I've been doing things hasn't worked out too well."
A flicker in her peripheral vision resolves into a pair of headlights coming up behind them. Vic allows herself the distraction of tracking the car until the red tail lights blink out on the horizon. Perspective, she thinks. That's the crux of it. Turn the paper and the picture changes. Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.
Something small scurries by at the edge of the grass and disappears into the blank darkness. She watches a dust-colored moth dance in the beams of the Bronco's own headlights.
"Vic, that day," Walt says slowly, "you said we used to be close."
She holds herself very still. "Yeah."
"It's my fault we're not anymore."
He's not asking a question but she answers him anyway. "Yeah."
"Yeah," he says, like he's confirming it to himself. Then, "I'm sorry."
After a moment she says, "Me too."
Understanding blankets them in a silence that's neither heavy nor strained. A quiet happiness unfurls within her and she has the strangest urge to cry.
Walt shifts with a rustle of denim and clears his throat. "I had nightmares for a while. After Chance Gilbert." Vic turns her head to look at him again but he's focused out the window now. "Just the one, really. It was always the same."
Another car passes them, from the opposite direction this time, pushing a gust of wind into the Bronco.
"What was it?"
"It was about that night. Trying to get you out of there." His fingers rub against the worn nap of the seat fabric. "I know he's got you, he's hiding you somewhere, but I can't find you. I can't find you," he repeats, more softly. When he finally looks at her, his eyes are haunted. "And then I do. I find you but you're already dead."
Vic bites her lip, remembering her drive back to the compound after Ed left them on the road: every second of it suffocating her with the thick, strangling terror of what might be waiting there.
"I would've killed him, Vic." Walt's voice is low and rough. "I wanted to kill him for what he did to you. But if he had... I would've killed him, and anybody else who got in my way, with no remorse."
This anguish in him isn't something he's left in the past; it's an immediate, open wound. She swallows hard. "But you didn't."
"No," he agrees, and his eyes shift away from hers again. "But not for the right reasons. Death is too quick, too easy. I wanted him to suffer for hurting you. I want him to suffer."
He speaks as if confessing some great transgression, some mortal sin. Vic knows nothing about absolution — not how to grant it and certainly not how to receive — but she does know guilt and shame.
"I heard a shot," she says, "when I was inside the house." The truck is warm enough now for her to slide the coat off her shoulders. She studies the even stitches on the sleeve, smoothing them with two fingers. "Sean told me he'd called you and I knew you'd come. I knew and... they threw a body bag down in that bunker with us. I thought..." Even now the memory makes her voice break. "I thought it was you."
For no more than a minute Vic had lived in a world where Walt was dead and it had been unbearable.
Over the low hum of the engine, she hears him take a deep, harsh breath.
"That wasn't in your statement."
She raises her eyebrows at him. "What, that I had a screaming meltdown over what I thought was your body? In front of my husband?" Her laugh is derisive. "Yeah, that's definitely something I wanted in an official record."
Walt's hand curls into a fist against his thigh. "We should've talked about that night. I should've made you talk to somebody."
Any other police department would have required it, she knows. Still, the fault isn't his alone. "You tried to. And you had other things to worry about at the time."
"That's no excuse, Vic. I was selfish. I needed you to be okay and so I let it go. I let a lot of things go." He looks at her with so much regret she almost can't bear it. "I let you down."
"You did," she says quietly, because there's no reason to deny the truth. "But there are a hell of a lot more times when you didn't," she adds, because that's the truth too.
The tightness in his shoulders and around his eyes softens almost imperceptibly. "So I guess the point is to keep trying."
Something tickles in the back of her mind, a memory trying to work its way out, but it doesn't come any closer. "I guess so," she says, with the beginnings of a smile. Then a yawn escapes before she can hold it back as fatigue finally catches up with her.
Walt straightens in his seat, the moment broken. "I should get you home."
...
The familiar crunch of gravel under the tires wakes Vic from a light doze when they make the last turn to her place.
"This the one?" Walt asks as he pulls up alongside her truck.
"Yeah," she says with a note of pride. The Argosy is old and not much to look at — and it's not as if she's had the time or inclination to do anything fancy to her little patch like some of the neighbors — but it's all hers and she loves it. "Home sweet home."
He nods and shifts the truck into park.
At just after ten on a weeknight the streets in this part of the neighborhood are deserted. When he cuts the engine the quiet feels like pressure in her ears.
Walt splays his hands on his thighs and rubs them against the denim. Under the jaundiced yellow of the sodium streetlights they look pared to raw essentials, all sinew and bone, with none of the gentleness Vic knows is in their marrow. Twice now those hands have held her together. Twice now they've been the safest place she's ever known.
Embarrassed at the way her thoughts have wandered, she clears her throat and fumbles to unclasp her seat belt. Walt's coat is still lying across her knees; she picks it up and offers it to him without meeting his eyes. "Thanks for the loan."
For a second she can feel him just looking at her, and then his hand closes lightly around her wrist. Her left, his right.
Everything slows.
He takes the coat from her, letting it fall to the seat, and lowers their joined hands to rest on top of it. His fingers slide down until they curve underneath hers and her knuckles are nestled in his palm.
Vic stares blindly through the windshield and tries to slow the wild beat of her heart. It feels like she's thirteen again and holding a boy's hand is the most exciting thing that's ever happened to her. She wants to giggle or scream or spontaneously combust just to release some of the manic rush of the connection. Her fingers curl slowly around his.
"I don't want to pretend anymore, Vic," Walt says quietly.
She steals a glance in his direction and finds him in profile. "I never asked you to."
"I know. But I did. And I let it go on too long." His hold on her hand tightens. "You said earlier that I had to have known. I, uh, I think the truth is that I wouldn't let myself know. It was easier that way."
"Why?"
"Because it meant I didn't have to admit what I felt. What I feel."
Tiny prickles of heat race into her cheeks and up into her tingling scalp. She grips his fingers and repeats through dry lips, "What you feel?"
Their hands are clinging to each other, locked together, holding on for dear life.
"I love you, Vic."
It's like falling into Clear Creek in the middle of winter. The shock of it freezes the breath in her lungs and she's suspended, disoriented, searching for the elusive direction of up.
"I don't know if you still want, um, want to be with me," Walt's saying. "I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. But you should know... that's what I want."
And it's not as if it's a complete surprise; it's not as if she can't see how the whole night has been slowly easing towards this. But even after everything that's happened, that's been said, in this moment it still feels too sudden and too much.
"I can't do this right now," Vic whispers into the thick silence.
"Yeah, no, that's okay." The words tumble out almost on top of each other. "That's fine. Take your time. I'll be here. Well, not here, you know, but, um..." Walt breaks off with a sigh. "I'm not going anywhere."
She nods, still not looking at him, slightly hysterical laughter bubbling at the back of her throat. "Thanks for driving me home."
"Sure, yeah. I'll, uh, wait 'til you get inside."
Climbing out of the Bronco, her body feels limp and heavy, as though she's waterlogged. Her hand feels strange without his, lighter than it should be, lacking.
It's a short walk to her trailer, half a dozen steps at most, and yet the distance seems much greater from where she's standing. The distance from here to there, from where they are now to where they could be, seems insurmountable. Wrapping her arms around herself, Vic heads for her door.
There's a monstrous fear inside her that her father is right: that damage is her nature and everywhere she goes it spreads. She remembers a night at the river after Branch's murder, when they'd all still thought it was suicide. She remembers the knifing cold of the water and her grief at her own toxicity. The possum was a metaphor, wasn't it? It came out of the safety of the dark into her light and died of it.
What if, after everything, she's as bad for Walt as she's been for everyone else? What if all the reasons for them not to be together were barriers set up for their own safety? All those signs saying DANGER and DO NOT ENTER that she's blithely ignored?
The keys slip from her fingers when she pulls them out of her pocket. Bending to scoop them up, her eyes fall on the bright red blooms of her one and only pot plant — a housewarming gift from Jule and Ethel when they found out she'd moved in.
Vic slides her key into the lock and feels it stick.
Jule stops by now and then, sometimes with some of her grandmother's baking, sometimes with just her own attitude. She never mentions the money she stole or the check Vic wrote to cover it, but acknowledgement sits between them: one bad girl to another. Sometimes you don't need to ask for permission or forgiveness.
And Jule is still sober.
The plant is still thriving.
Vic's left hand is still warm from Walt's grip.
Before she's even aware of making the decision, she's striding to the driver's side of the Bronco. Walt's got the door open and is half out of his seat when she gets there.
"What about your lawsuit?" she says, breathless.
He shakes his head. "I don't know. But it's gonna happen no matter what I do. I can't stop it."
She gestures between them. "But this would make it worse, right?"
"Maybe. It might make things better. Instead of rumors and fabrications it would be... a relationship."
"Which Tucker Baggett would use against you."
"He's using it against me already, Vic. He's not interested in the truth."
Walt's tone is mild and his point is valid but she feels an irrational surge of resentment. She needs him to fight her on this, for his own sake.
"What about work?"
"There's no official policy against it."
"But it'll make things complicated," she insists.
"I don't think we can get much more complicated than we are now."
His little his half smile only infuriates her more.
"So you've got it all worked out, then? You've just decided how it's all gonna go?"
"No." He runs his hand over the back of his neck with a sigh. The dome light shines down behind him, gilding his hair and casting shadows that linger in the hollows and angles of his face. "I know I've made a lot of mistakes, Vic. I'm just asking for the chance to get it right this time."
A whisper of memory. Maybe getting it right just one time is enough.
Just like that the thin blanket of anger she'd gathered around herself dissipates. Its heat trickles away, leaching into the night, and Vic tucks her hands close to her body to protect them from the cold.
"You should get inside," Walt tells her, reaching out to rub his hands up and down her arms. "We don't have to talk about this now."
He hasn't put his hat or his coat back on but somehow he's radiating warmth. There's a softness in him as he looks at her — as he's been looking at her all night, she realizes. No more stoic, impassive mask; no more hiding. He's present in a way that he hasn't been in a long time.
She moves in closer until their bodies are almost touching. He's slouched a bit, braced against the side of the driver's seat, with his long legs splayed on either side of her. In this position they're almost the same height, their eyes at the same level, the distance between them shrunk to nothing.
He still smells a little like soap and his hair is messy from their mad dash through the field. His cheeks and jaw are smooth. The dark blue shirt he's wearing makes his eyes impossibly blue even in this ugly light that only turns her washed-out and sallow. He's obstinate and uncompromising and resistant to change. He's kind and stupidly honorable and the sexiest man she's ever met.
"I'm scared," Vic blurts.
Walt runs his thumb lightly over her collar bone where it rises from the neck of her sweater. "Me too."
It's the tenderness in his voice as much as his touch that makes her shiver. She doesn't know how not to love him.
"So what do we do?"
"I guess we have to talk about a lot of things."
And though everything might be changing, they're both still who they are, so she smirks. "'Cause you're so good at that."
"I'll get better," he says, perfectly serious, not joking even a little, while fear and hope flicker over his face right there for her to see. He means it.
"Okay," she says.
"Okay?"
Vic slides her hands against his chest and up over his shoulders, feeling the texture of the cotton, the heat of his skin underneath, the slight movements of muscle as he breathes. "That's what I want."
His smile dawns slowly, rising from his lips to his eyes and crinkling them at the edges. His whole posture relaxes like a full-body sigh. "I've missed you, Vic," he murmurs as he brushes tentative fingers against her cheek.
Happiness is a warm waterfall cascading through her. "I missed you, too."
He cradles her jaw in his palm. The tip of one finger slips behind her ear and strokes a tiny patch of skin there. Her eyes fall closed all on their own as the sensation arrows downward, rippling along her spine.
She leans into his hand, every inch of her skin responding to his nearness. Their noses bump as he angles his head and she smiles. Her smile widens as he does it again, this time on purpose. Then his hot breath fans across her lips and she parts them in shameless anticipation.
"We'll figure it out," he says against her mouth.
And kisses her.
[END]
notes: you may notice that i've repurposed lines from several episodes and i've also unrepentantly stolen a line from battlestar galactica. vic's panic attack is based on my own experience, but everyone's different so YMMV. the title comes, as before, from george eliot's armgart.