A/N: this one is part of my 'conversations they should've had' series. there are a few lines that i've repurposed/rephrased from the show.

Walt wakes up, disoriented, with his back against the headboard and a crick in his neck. He hadn't meant to fall asleep.

The silence of the cabin offers no clue as to what woke him. A glance at his watch tells him his nap lasted for about two hours. Vic must be asleep herself by now.

He gets up, wincing at the twinges in his stiff muscles, and eases open the bedroom door to check on her. It takes him a single sweeping instant to absorb the scene.

The lamp is on.

The front door is open.

The room is empty.

His heart slams hard against his ribs and stunning, icy fear ricochets in his gut. His head is a whirl of he found her he took her she's gone.

It's an eternity in two long strides before he sees Vic sitting on the top step of the porch, her arms wrapped around her knees.

Walt's relief is so sudden and so powerful it makes his head swim. He has to bend and brace his hands on his thighs, forcing himself to take even breaths as he stares at his feet.

Safe. She's safe. She's here.

He stands up straight and runs his hands over his face. Outside, in the distance, a silent electrical storm rages.

Vic turns her head when he opens the screen door as if she's been expecting him. "Hey. Did I wake you?"

"Nope." He sits down next to her and watches the sky light up. "Couldn't sleep?"

She shakes her head. "The lightning was so bright I kept thinking it was headlights. Eventually I figured I'd just get up and come out here until it was over."

Walt nods his understanding and for a while they sit and watch the storm together. Despite its far off violence, the sky overhead is clear and the air is calm. As a metaphor, or even augury, it seems to offer hope.

Vic stirs beside him, speaking quietly into the darkness. "I'm sorry about making things weird for you with Lizzie."

He turns his head to see her. Strands of her hair are glowing in the light that shines from inside the cabin; they're the same electric color that fills the sky. Though it's only the second time Vic's been to his place, her presence next to him feels comfortable and familiar, more than welcome. The truth he can't admit to is that he'd rather be sitting here with her than doing anything with Lizzie Ambrose.

"You didn't."

Vic offers him a small, sad smile and then looks away. "I know it's not really my business, but... I don't want to wreck anything for you by being here."

Walt hears the rustle of wild grass nearby and then a cut-off squeak as some small unlucky creature becomes a meal for something larger. Probably an owl, he thinks. From time to time he comes across the oval pellets of skin and bone that signify their kills.

Like spent shells.

"Don't worry about that," he says. "Stay here as long as you need. What's important is keeping you safe."

She bites her bottom lip for a few seconds before saying, "Okay."

The silence between them grows heavy.

He knows Vic. He knows there's more to why she came to Wyoming, more truth to be unraveled. It's a thread he doesn't want to tug both for her sake and his own, but there's no way around the ugly necessity. He can't protect her if he doesn't have all of the facts.

"It was more than just bullet casings with Gorski, wasn't it?" he finally asks.

Her shoulders stiffen and still. She answers him with a slow, deep breath.

"What else happened?" he presses softly.

It takes her some time to answer, but Walt is a patient man.

Drawing her arms in against her chest, Vic keeps her eyes fixed on the storm. "When the other cops at my precinct found out I'd ratted to IAB, they treated me like I had a disease. Even my friends acted like I was contagious. But it got a lot worse after Bobby killed himself. Little things started happening, like my paperwork going missing. It was minor stuff, but it all built up and after a while I was rattled."

"Understandable."

"Then I started running into Ed a lot when I was off duty. He was always friendly, smiling, and I tried to tell myself I was being paranoid. But there was something about the way he looked at me. And he would make these comments that were... I don't know. It wasn't so much what he said as how he said it. He wanted to scare me. He wanted me to know he was coming for me."

Her voice shakes the way it had in the sunlight of his office. Now, in the dark, she sounds even more lost. Compassion tears at him, a spasm deep within his chest.

"Take your time," he tells her.

Vic clears her throat. "That's when the bullet casings began showing up. Then our house was broken into. There was no sign of a robbery, but one of my uniforms was laid out on the bed all cut up, like somebody just hacked at it with a pair of shears. So we had the locks changed and the alarm system upgraded. A couple of my brothers would drive past the house in their patrol cars at random times. But there was another break-in about a month later. That time, um..."

Her voice doesn't trail off so much as it seems to refuse her intent to go on. In its wake, the still air grumbles with a sound pitched almost too low to hear as the mountains echo the storm back to itself.

A shiver runs through Vic as though the thunder resounds inside her, lending her its voice. She licks her lips. "Uh, some of my underwear went missing. I'm pretty sure Ed took it."

Anger and nausea rise in Walt's throat in equal measure. He swallows them down until he's sure his voice won't betray him. "You reported all of this?"

"I went to my LT after the first break-in but there was really nothing he could do. I had no proof. I was never going to have proof and we all knew it. Then Sean's car was broken into." She lets out a sardonic huff of a laugh. "It's so weird, but I remember it was a Tuesday. He found a bunch of lilies on the driver's seat and there was a card with them. It said 'With deepest sympathies for your loss.'"

He feels a powerful stab of the deep, visceral horror he imagines Sean must have experienced. Something else clicks into place. "So those flowers Bob delivered to the office..."

"That was Ed."

"And 'happy anniversary'?"

"Bobby's suicide. Two years." Her voice is flat, unnerving. "He got it wrong, though. Flowers are for your fourth anniversary. Second is cotton. Or maybe paper. I forget."

An immense distance has sprung up between them and Walt has to curl his hands into fists against the desire to reach for her across it. "Why didn't you tell me then?" he asks, trying to bring her back.

"I don't know. I wanted to, but... I'd already spent so long not telling you. And I was scared. I was so scared, Walt. Talking about it would've just brought it all back. I don't want to go back there again," she whispers.

Her breathing is rapid and shallow, and he can see how hard her fingers are digging into the skin of her arm.

"I know," he says, because he's lived that kind of pain. But Gorski isn't giving her a choice. The whole picture has finally become clear. "It's not just about his partner, is it, Vic? This is about you. His obsession with you." When she doesn't respond, Walt forces himself to say, "I need to know, did you two have some kind of... romantic relationship? Or is it all in his imagination?"

She curls in tighter on herself and rests her head on her knees. "It was a long time before Bobby, before I was even in Homicide. It only lasted a few months. I was young and it was like this fun, secret game we were playing. Only the more dangerous it got, the more he liked it, and the more I didn't. Then I found out he was married. So I ended it."

"Did he hurt you?" Walt can barely get the question out.

After a moment of hesitation she says, "No."

Then, "Not exactly."

He waits. He's not sure what might come out of his mouth if he opens it now.

Vic closes her eyes. When she finally begins to speak, her voice is hollow, resigned. "Ed liked games, liked to play mind games. The last time we... were together, he got me cuffed to the bed and left. Pretended to leave," she amends, her right hand absently rubbing at her left wrist. "I thought he'd really gone. He let me think that. I had never felt so terrified and so helpless in my life. I was naked. I couldn't get to my phone. No one knew where I was. It was only fifteen or twenty minutes but I swear to god it felt like hours."

"Then he let you go?" Please, god, don't let it be anything else.

"He uncuffed me." She lifts her head and meets his eyes. "But I don't think he ever let me go."

Walt's heart simply fractures.

He wants to crush her to him and shield her from ever being harmed. He wants to find Ed Gorski and beat him until some of this rage is washed away by blood.

Vic sits up and tucks some wayward hair behind her ear. "I've never told anyone about that before," she says with the barest of smiles.

"Sean doesn't know?"

"He knows Ed and I were involved and I broke it off. He doesn't know the details."

Even so, he wonders, how can a man leave his wife — leave Vic — so often alone? Sean knows the rest of what she's been through, must know that she carries those memories and that fear. He knows she's been threatened and terrorized; he knows the sadistic measures that Gorski is capable of. And yet he's away as often as he's at home, leaving her without any kind of support.

A wistful, inchoate longing gathers in Walt's chest. She deserves so much more.

With a sigh, she stretches her legs out until her pointed toes dangle between the bottom two steps. Ahead of them, the storm is winding down now, with only the occasional flicker streaking across the sky.

"I just need this to be over," Vic says. "I'm so goddamn tired of being afraid."

He thinks of how pale and drawn she'd looked this morning and wonders how long it's been since she's had more than a few hours rest.

"You should try to get some sleep," he says at last.

"So should you."

He tips his head in acknowledgement. "I'd feel better if you take the bed."

One of her eyes catches the light like a spark when she turns her head. Walt's expecting her to argue but after a long, searching look, Vic simply nods.

With a last glance at the waning storm, she rises.

Despite her bare feet and sweats, the taut lines of her face, there's something almost regal about her now. A snippet of Tennyson unfolds from memory, Though much is taken, much abides. He's thinking of it as they make their way inside.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you everything before," Vic says as he closes and locks the door.

One equal temper of heroic hearts.

He turns to face her.

"Thank you for telling me now."

note: the Tennyson passage walt references is from Ulysses: 'Though much is taken, much abides; and though / We are not now that strength which in old days / Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are, / One equal temper of heroic hearts. / Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will / To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.'