Ferg is engrossed in the computer screen, scribbling notes, with papers spread about his desk.
"Morning, Ferg."
He glances up, "Hey, Vic."
"You in early." I say because he is.
"Just a few minutes, I figured I would come in and get a head start so I'm making a list if you wanna go over it?"
"Sounds like a plan."
I slide into my seat relieved that Walt's door is still closed but my relief is temporary as I hear the heavy footsteps trudge up the wooden staircase.
The half-door pushes open from the force of his thick thighs hidden by baggy jeans, "Mornin'" his deep morning voice booms in the room.
He looks over at me bearing a slight smile on his lips as he passes by and I don't do what I have been doing and I say as he walks by, "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
He just nods and I follow him into his office, close the door behind me, and lean against it for support because I need it even if it's from a near century old piece of pine. I know that I'm being chicken shit for talking to him at work but the wooden walls at work offer me security. Security and safety from myself and my apparent inability to consistently say no, it's the whole battle and war thing again.
"You get any sleep?" I ask because my courage is as temporary as my plan so I don't have a script worked out in my head.
"Not really." He does that half smile thing again and stays standing behind his desk.
"What's up?" His hands fall to his hips, fingers splayed across his front.
"Saying no was probably the hardest thing I've ever done. I want you to know that." My eyes don't waiver from him and I tell myself to remember to breathe.
"I believe you." He says and I think he does but he still doesn't get why I said no.
"Walt, I'm not ready for what you think we are ready for."
He listens and bites his bottom lip. He's thinking and processing as he moves to the front of his desk and leans against it, his arms folded over his chest, building his barriers.
"I think about you, too, and I do it a lot but what I think about is how you have me wrapped up with guilt and shame with either Martha or Barlow and honestly Walt I don't want that even as much as I want you. I don't deserve that. I deserve better. I want better and really you should too."
At that, he looks out toward the window, still processing and then back toward me. His head cants to the side, and he says, "ok."
Just a plain, "ok?" I ask but I take it as a verbal cue and move a little forward, testing my courage, my commitment to this thing, and say, "Do you get what I'm saying?"
"I think so."
"Do you get how we can't start whatever it is we are going to start like this?"
"I think maybe I do." And I don't think he's just saying it.
He stands up and closes the distance between us, "I never meant to hurt you, Vic."
"I know that, Walt. That's why I'm here. That and I can't keep running from you since we do work together." My thinly veiled attempt to alleviate this with any grasp of humor.
I try to smile but it falls flat, "You're wanting me to compromise even if you don't see it that way." I pause and add,"I bet you never had to do it before. Compromise, I mean."
He looks at me; his eyes are almost black, "Maybe not."
I reach up and put my hand on his chest, "I can't be a placeholder."
His eyebrows try to close the distance between themselves.
"Maybe you were distracted by Nighthorse and not by me and that's why you missed Barlow's lies. I can't take the blame, Walt. I won't take the blame. I missed them, too, the lies."
He doesn't say anything, just looks at me with those dark irises, "I'm not Martha. I can never take her place."
"I don't want you to be Martha."
"Your feelings aren't wrong, Walt. You get that, right?" Our eyes are searching for truth,"but if you feel guilty for being with me then…"
He puts his finger to my lips, "Vic, listen to me." His eyes are moving back and forth then land and stay on mine, "Maybe you're right," and his hand drops down to my arm caressing it with light soft strokes.
"But my guilt is not because I didn't love her enough. I did love her but it's that I..." He looks down at the patch on my uniform and his words stall out.
"Walt" I say, as I put my palms gently on his chest, on either side of the pearl snaps.
"Can I kiss you?" He asks softly, quietly, like it was a thought he didn't want to share with me.
I answer before I think, "Yes," because no matter how hard I try I know my control is fleeting.
He's slow and methodical his tongue eases and twists around like a conduit filling me with all that he feels inside and it's nearly overpowering but every processed thought and emotion I have felt in the past 24-hours is returned in kind and I swear we are going to explode right where we stand.
I break away first and stare into his eyes, "You shaved, again." My hand traces his cheek. The comment completely arbitrary.
"Cady got me a new straight razor this past Father's Day and I'm meeting her for lunch today. I thought it would be nice."
This is the reason I tell myself, the dichotomy, and it's so intense that I can barely contain it.
Somehow he manages to pull me closer to him, his hands wrapped around my waist, "Walt, we can't make this a habit at work, and besides I still need some time, ok."
"Let me just hold you, if only for a minute."
"I'm going with Ferg to the Assessor's office and we are going to see what we can find, oh, and the Planning office, too."
"Ok" His eyes are locked and I can feel the warmth passing between our bodies.
"While you're working on that I will meet with Doc Blumfield and go over the autopsy results, again." We stand there holding each other like it's a completely appropriate way to have a conversation at work.
"Your minute is up."
He smiles and steps back, dropping his arms while raising his hands in a modified defeat, "Will I see you later?"
"Duh, I work here."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know."
I turn back toward the door and hear him call my name.
"Vic"
"Walt."
He suddenly looks woefully serious, "Ah, I'll work on myself, too."
I smile and head back out with Ferg and update the spreadsheet feeling relieved and sad and hopeful and terrified all at the same time.