Wristlock

A/N: Lately the fan fiction submissions have emphasized what a great friendship Walt and Vic have developed over the years, slowly coming to a gentle simmer with lots of thinkin' and (in the fiction here) lots of talkin' before the doin'. Alas, and unlike the books, there hasn't been a reverse wristlock to be found. Oh, c'mon, in S3E9 "Counting Coup," Vic could have taken Branch down in a couple of secs with a reverse wristlock, but nooooo, they have to have Walt go all macho protective and waltz Branch into a cell. So here, to relieve my somewhat book-canon-leaning mind, she gets to implement one, and given it's our Vic, of course there's a bit of un-family-friendly language.

Beyond the wristlock, I'm going to try and channel the books for, forgive me, a quickie…and we'll see if I can write a stand-alone love scene for a WIC moment. Hopefully everyone remembers the end of the teaser for "Election Day," in which Walt stalks back purposefully to Lizzie's house and in one of his trademark furniture adjustments, sweeps the table clean to prepare it for some Lizzie, er, well, "lovin" is *not* the right word... Does anyone reading here think it was just the wrong woman at the wrong time?—well, I am hoping maybe most of the reading Longmire fandom does. Hope you enjoy!

This is sort of a get-my-feet-wet again one-shot. I was pretty out of it for six weeks, still having a lot of asthma. I guess fires in Canada and ozone days in Denver aren't helping!

By the way, I *am* working on both Leaving Durant and Survival once again.

PREQUEL

She grabbed her radio from her belt behind her and warned Ferg and Branch that they were on their own going in from the rear of the store, but at least had the element of surprise while she and Walt were decoys out front. The suspects thought they were being approached from where she and Walt now crouched behind the Bronco. Branch and Ferg would have to take great care but could improvise, and, she thought with relief, at least they were wearing the vests Walt had refused. He had stepped out to address the perps to where they hid in the store, when shots rang out.

He whirled back behind the protection of the Bronco. Her first instinct was to beat Walt shitless for not wearing one of the long vests she had bought with government grants the year before. She wasn't even sure the bullets which had whizzed so close to them had missed, so she crouched down beside him in the snow and started to do an impromptu triage.

"No, I'm fine." He tried to bat her hands away, but she raised her brows and gave him a glare.

At her harshest "Fuck you!" the reputed bad-ass of Absaroka County went all meek and let her have her way. At first, she thought he'd been spared, until a red streak appeared to grow on the outer edge of his upper left thigh. She had horrifying thoughts of an artery, but it didn't look to be spurting. When her hand went to his belt buckle, startling him, he started to protest, but she pushed his hands aside.

She made quick work of it, for over the years she had become quite proficient with men's pants. He was wearing paisley boxers, the front of the left thigh which seemed to be absorbing blood. She could feel her breathing hitch with concern. Not unscathed, then. She put pressure on it despite a hiss from Walt, and the bleeding seemed to subside, a good sign. She began to breathe again. He was obviously not so comfortable with her handling his thigh, though. His face looked like thunder.

"Ferg could do that—"

"Shut up, Walt. Branch and Ferg are busy, and if you won't wear a vest, my hopes for a family someday might get all fucked."

His eyes darted to hers. His mouth opened, nothing came out. While his normal operating procedure was to say very little, her statement seemed to have rendered him speechless. Yep, he was hurt, and yep, that shut him up. Good and better.

Branch and Ferg emerged from the rear of the store, trudging through the snow with two suspects in cuffs—bully for them! Branch sported a red and swollen cheek which looked like it might turn into a black eye. Well, better Branch than her, this time. Her nose and the subsequent black eyes had hurt like a bitch for almost a month, and she still had periodic medical follow-ups what with the encounter at Chance's followed by Walt's roundhouse.

"Take my truck!" she yelled to them. "I'm going to take Walt to DM. Before you leave, get some tape up, and get back here to do the investigation after you get the Two Stooges behind bars in Tri-County; there were warrants out on both. Branch, Ferg is lead on this. Can you bring him back out for his car later, and assist him with the investigation?" She said it without thinking, without consulting Walt, who gave her a look like she had suddenly sprouted horns, but grudging admiration hid in there, as well. After all, she was undersheriff, and she had an officer down. So take that, boss.

"Yes, ma'am," said Branch, who scowled as he saw her applying pressure to the wound. Good, no snickers. He pushed the suspect's head down to get in the back seat of his sleek little cruiser, grabbed a role of tape and went back to seal off the store. He could have made another, in-the-past inevitable comment about Walt's jeans being around his knees with her kneeling in front of him, but he didn't. Good again.

"Is he going to be okay?" asked Ferg, with what was likely real concern. He so looked up to Walt…

"I'm fine, I'll be all right," grated out Walt, still leaning against the Bronco in his boxers, but she could tell it was an effort. He might be getting light-headed, and probably more than a bit chilly. "Stop talking about me like I'm passed out or something. Just—do what Vic says."

"I think so," she answered Ferg, ignoring Walt, because he'd say he was fine if the artery had been nicked and he was spraying blood like a fountain.

"Glad to hear it," said Ferg, getting his own suspect situated next to the other one. He and Branch clambered in and peeled off.

Walt hadn't passed out, but she thought he might if she didn't at least get him to sit. He had gone pale, maybe a little gray, going into shock at the very least.

"Let me get the blanket on the seat under you. Keep pressure on that," she instructed. It was less than a minute before she helped him inside, having him keep pressure on the wound, which mercifully had gone to a sluggish bleed, now.

He was sitting kind of slumped there, shivering, jeans around his knees. She folded the blanket over him once to prevent shock, a little for propriety and more for her peace of mind, flipped the visor to retrieve the keys, radio'd in to Ruby and the ER, turned the heater on full and ran hot—full lights and sirens—at well past the speed limit all the way to DM.

Part I—Flare

He refused to go home. "There's too much paperwork. It's just a few stitches. If I start hurting, I'll leave."

A few stitches had turned into fourteen. She had been watching and wincing as each one had been set. Though admittedly numbed, he had been stoic about it, and she thought of the scars on his back. Those, un-numbed, must have been hell to endure. The scratch had been shallow, but wide, and refused to stop bleeding on its own. Her comment about his manhood had not been amiss. The doctor had commented during suturing that the slug had only missed it by a few inches.

"Fuck you. With that stuff that attractive Dr. Nobly gave you in your system, you'll be in Fairyland. They said to stay quiet! You shouldn't be driving, anyway."

"I will be quiet. Whatever they gave me is working, and you know we need to do the paperwork. You can drive me home, later. We can even have Ferg meet us at my place with your truck."

"I've got a better idea: I'll take you home, and then I'll do the paperwork-" He ignored her and pushed right by to walk into the station. Neither Doctor Weston, nor even better, Doc Bloomfield, who Walt nominally listened to, had been on duty. Doctor Nobly, a she, had sutured the wound, which was about four inches across, and dispensed prophylactic antibiotics which Vic vowed colorfully she would force down his throat if he wouldn't take them on his own. She had seen Dr. Weston's prescriptions tossed in his wastebasket more than once.

Not knowing Walt, Doctor Nobly had also given him painkillers for a couple of days after an initial dose in the exam room. In deference to his determination and the painkillers, she had driven him to the station because he refused to get in the Bronco if she were going to take him home.

The painkillers rather dulled his eyes, but did not diminish the obstinate in him.

It was painful to watch him walk up the stairs. It was also slow going, and she stayed behind in the event he might let her lend a hand. Still, it was rather enjoyable to watch his behind, since she now had enjoyed a glimpse what lay beneath the denim.

"I'll help you shower when we get you home if you want."

"Right, you just want my pants off."

"I was thinking more to tape a sandwich bag around the stitches. Yeah, wound care, what a treat, every woman's dream" she said, dripping sarcasm. She wondered if she should make a Stupid sign for his forehead. With the good stuff which Dr. Nobly had given him, he might even miss that.

They made the landing, and she gestured to the bench. He looked gray again after the climb and thought how easy it would be to affix the Stupid sign to his forehead after he passed out. She could easily use one of Ruby's post-its. "Let's sit down," she said. It was not a suggestion.

He sat gingerly, wincing, legs straight out in front of him.

"You heard me ask Doc Nobly if I'd have any, uh, male problems from the wound."

"I did." She was pressing her lips together even as he said it. Please, not that discussion now.

"Did you mean it?"

Shit, it was that discussion now.

"Did I mean what?" she asked innocently, hoping to deflect or divert it. After all, she had absorbed three years of instruction from the master at dissembling.

"That you might have hopes of a family…with me?"

"That remains to be seen, doesn't it—whether we become an us, whether you get it shot off not wearing a vest, or if you go and die on me, or me on you. And even if we become an us, we could always decide on no kids in the end game."

"But you've been thinking about it."

She pursed her lips. "It had crossed my mind, especially since the divorce."

His eyes kindled. The painkillers might be receding—but so soon?

"Come here."

She slid her eyes sideways. They were sitting similarly only a few feet apart. Their hands were on their thighs. His jeans had dried blood on the thigh, and looked uncomfortable. He should stay in loose sweats a few days so as to not tug at the stitches.

"Why?"

He snaked out a long arm and slid her against his side.

"Don't ask stupid questions." It wasn't a request. It wasn't even a summons. His eyes…

He ducked his head and nuzzled her ear.

"Here? Now?" she squeaked and stood straight up, her shoulder catching his chin.

"Ohhhh…I'm so sorry," she said contritely, wondering if he felt it at all with the opiate in his system, "but fuck, Walt!"

Part II—Ignition

His head was turned a little, like he was listening, before he shot up beside her and framed her face with his hands.

"You shouldn't— ," she tried to say, before his mouth was upon hers, in hers, plundering, hands tracing her ears.

Her head buzzed, her limbs were heavy. Reality smacked her. He shouldn't be standing, he shouldn't be doing anything like that even lying down…but the kissing…in the hall…

"Office," he murmured into her mouth, backing her a few steps, and he had his hand on her shirt buttons. She had to stop this madness, she didn't want him to bleed to death to try and make some stupid point by proving that he hadn't been killed, or to satisfy her.

He pivoted her around and back-walked her through the door, stripping off his coat and throwing it over his chair. No neat hang-up, his hat followed, brim up, it sailing on top of it on the chair. Original hat trick…

He seemed to be assessing the potential of the office, before he used one arm to clear a place on his desk, working at her belt buckle, sliding down the offending garments as far as he could get them while she was standing.

"Walt!" she breathed. It was not really breathing, it was more of a struggle to maintain while he took. This was not the shy, polite cowboy, this was a man built of long-banked passion who knew exactly what he wanted. Lucky woman Martha, to have had him all these years, this passion lurking behind the polite shucks ma'am mask. How had he managed for so long with her gone? Idly she wondered exactly how had he managed when Martha had been sick? Or maybe that was one of those TMI rhetoricals…

And why now? She thought of trauma situations bringing forth such reactions, it really was not unusual, but…for him…for them…from 0-100 in two minutes was so opposed to the professional restraint they had managed for more than three years…

There was little room for more thinking. He was trembling like a stallion, and she could feel the ridge of his erection against her. Still, she was afraid most of it was not from passion, but through the filters of pain, so as his arms came up to her shoulders and bent her upon the table, she took a deep breath, made the executive decision, and did it: she performed the textbook reverse wrist lock she was known for in the department. She had taught it to Ferg and he might have even used it that afternoon on at least one of the assailants in the store.

She took Walt's unsuspecting hand between her own, his thumb down, and twisted. When she got his attention, he gave a gasp of pain and retreated. His eyes were disbelieving.

"Okay, then," she said, breathing hard, unsatisfied and wanting more, but unwilling to have to mortifyingly call 911 because neither of them could keep their pants on. "You're giving me no choice. My turn to drive again."

She marched him to the couch, pieces of clothing discarded behind them and others partially hanging off, amused that the tall, feared lawman of Absaroka County trailed along with her like a puppy. His blood-dried boxers were still on—just. She got him sitting, then on his back, ignoring his protestations.

"Tonight you relax," she said, framing and stroking his face, loving the stubble on his jaw, and as he hands moved lower, the crispy curling chest hair under her fingers. "I said I'd do the paperwork," she grinned. "but fuck that, tonight, I'll do all the work. Tonight will be for you," she said. At his protest and hesitation she said, "Don't be a fucking fool, Walter Longmire, any other man in Durant I said that to would be lined up waiting to take his turn in front of that door. Just let me this once, Walt, and I promise you that as early as tomorrow you can drive, depending on how that leg feels without numbing and meds."

Part III—Blastoff!

"But," she said, eyes feeling like ferocious like brilliant shards of amber crystals in a chandelier, "if we start this, you will never, never put yourself at risk like that again when I am with you, and especially when I'm not with you." She poised, straight-armed over him, descending to take his mouth. Her turn—wet, slow, thirsty for him, no weight on his body.

She trailed wet, lipping kisses over his face, down his cheeks to his neck, to his chest. She stopped at the matching marks above each nipple. He would have to explain those to her someday.

"I don't think you can sit on me," he gasped. She realized he was probably right.

"Okay by me," she said, and began to work her way down his chest to his belly with her tongue and fingers. He was gasping, and to her gratification, the boxers were tented something fierce.

"If you have sweats stashed here," she said, slowly lowering the boxers, I may drive you home commando." She wondered idly which pain med he was on, some pain meds reduced male potency, but he was ready. Maybe this was all post-traumatic reaction. She had read once that was how it took some following a near-miss on the battlefield, wanting to reproduce to affirm life…

She shrugged. She didn't care if that were why, she wanted to affirm her own relief that he was still around, as well. She dipped her head to continue her ministrations, only to be efficiently flipped. Not like Sean had, half-hearted and all awkward, but with the experience of one who had been an all-star wrestler in high school, or had combat training in the Marines, or both. It was a head rush of someone she could not dismiss so easily, and as he began to nuzzle her neck, she through out one last thought that, Hmmmm…could be benefits from those experiences…

But his eyes…like cobalt flares, drew her in. Three years of wanting…no more waiting…neither of them had discussed protection or any of the details…but it was happening. It happened. And she regretted nothing.

Part IV - Splashdown

In the end, he did most of the work, and despite her initial fussing, didn't seem to be hampered at all. She kept checking the dressings, even long after the cries had died out she had heard but not registered, the cries which had taken her out of herself. Hell, yes, she had been vocal.

He had seemed at first amazed, turned-on and then wondering at her…well, appreciation of his efforts, had managed for much longer than she had expected in his medicated and wounded state, and now slept on his right side, his back against the cushions, while she precariously lay along the outer edge of the couch. One hand lay against a stubbled cheek, the other threaded across his bare chest forested in a wiry, curling mass. She had reason to know he had plenty more everywhere.

Their bodies cooled, and she was inclined to find a blanket from the holding cells to cover him with if he didn't wake soon. What was most endearing was that he smiled in his sleep. She had never seen that, before, had only seen him taking brief catnaps in hospital chairs, in the Bronco's driver seat, and once, when she'd stayed at his cabin, peeking in to see if he was awake, yet, so she could use the bathroom. No smiles then.

She slipped away, returned to find him on his back, and covered him gently. The meds had no doubt finally kicked in and he didn't stir. She gathered her things, quickly and discreetly used the Reading Room to clean up and dress, and was at her desk doing paperwork long before she heard boots on the stairs.

REALITY

Of course the boots were Ferg and/or Branch, come to do their end of the paperwork after a long round trip dropping the perps at Tri-County.

It was indeed both of them. They topped the stairs and quietly breached the gate.

"How's Walt?" asked the Ferg, that hint of concern still in his voice.

"Sleeping in his office," she said, smiling. "Painkillers kicked in. Bad scratch is all, but took stitches."

"The usual," said Branch, and something of the old snicker was back.

"Fortunately that was all. He wouldn't go home, but the meds put him out."

"Probably better for us all. What was he thinking?"

She met Branch's gaze. "I don't know. I think he was more reckless when I first hired on…"

"After Martha died," agreed the Ferg. "He was. We all saw it."

"So, I don't know, now." She left it at that.

She looked up to find them staring behind her. She swiveled to see Walt, peeking through his office door, blanket draped around his waist. He did have his shirt on, she was gratified to see.

"I think my old sweats may be in the Reading Room," he said, voice all gravelly.

She rose. "Okay, I'll look. How are you feeling?"

He tilted his head but didn't answer. Maybe he couldn't? He retreated behind the door.

She went back to rifle through the clothing items and found an ancient pair of sweat pants with the USC logo on them. The elastic was barely there, still, they'd be okay until she could get him home.

She knocked politely at his office door. He opened it almost immediately. "Would these work?" she asked, only to be hauled against him.

"I know," he breathed, "Not at work, but you can't imagine how I feel…"

"Maybe I can," she said, feeling almost shy, but grinning more than a little.

"Us," he said quietly.

Her head burrowed against him in acknowledgment. "Yep," she said, muffled against his chest.

"Henry's right," he said softly, "you are starting to talk like me."

She just smiled.