Sorry it's been so long since the last update for this! I've been busy with work and numerous cooler things, but I've still been chipping away at this fic and a couple others. Thank you to everyone for the patience and continued support!

This chapter is on the shorter side by my standards, but it felt complete and I wanted to share something before my work week begins.


Dreamcatcher
Part IX

The texture of life continues to change and he's starting to feel like maybe he has some control over things again, finally.

Authority is a natural position for him and he's used to being in charge of the world directly around him. For Walt Longmire being the sheriff isn't just a job, it's the way he is as a man right down to his bones with all the attendant blood and flesh and increasingly strained connective tissue that surrounds them.

That natural sense of command has eroded and deteriorated over the past few years, frustration mounting in the face of events seemingly beyond his control. From Martha's murder all the way up to the wrongful death lawsuit and almost everything in between, he's been faced with one apparent failure after another. Walt has never believed in coincidence, but refusing to admit that he couldn't have stopped any of it only leads down a path of self-loathing and blame— some of which he knows he deserves regardless of all the exonerations and reprieves heaped upon him.

Being wrong about so many things and losing sight of the grounded and resolute perspective that has always been so deeply ingrained resulted in a string of bad decisions, mislaid trust, and a surprisingly thorough destruction of his confidence. In combination this has caused every important relationship in his life to suffer, from his stubborn attempts to protect his loved ones to his own more obstreperous refusals to listen or accept help from any of them.

It brings to mind that dark night by the river with Vic, and her assertions that she was 'toxic'. The memory causes a sick feeling in his stomach, because in the end wasn't Walt himself the one who infected everything and everyone around him? Vic had theorized that anybody who got too close to her either died or left— wasn't that truer for him than for anyone else? He and his deputy were alike in so many ways, and yet he had almost managed to push her away completely. And hadn't that been his intention, his warped and nebulous objective? The urge to protect Vic had been powerful, but he'd gone about it all wrong and it was clear to Walt now that part of his behavior had been rooted in a deep and selfish terror-induced compulsion to shield his own heart.

As Walt reclines on the uncomfortable sofa in his unlit office, he remembers what he told Vic back then and wonders how he had been capable of offering such simple-sounding counsel that he himself was so entirely incapable of taking on board.

"Maybe the point is to keep trying. Maybe getting it right just one time is good enough."

Thinking about the feel of Vic in his arms, even just the low-level satisfied buzz he gets from knowing she's in the outer office poring over the copy of Zachary's medical records they pulled from the departmental file with her hair glowing gold by the light of the desk lamp, Walt is finally able to admit to himself how badly he wants this to be that time. He knows he's done almost everything wrong when it comes to them, but now that he's started to let himself love Vic he knows quitting is no longer an option. The moment their lips met he knew that he would fight for her, that he would take his own advice and keep trying.

Vic had told him he shouldn't go home with the situation being what it was, and Walt isn't sure whether to laugh or cry or hang his head in shame at the role reversal presented by her suggestion. He could see it in Vic's face as soon as the words escaped her lips, the recollection that he'd said the same both to her and to Donna and the fact that she hadn't finished digesting how she felt about that.

Ferg had decided to do a bit of surveillance at Zachary's place, to see if he or anybody else turned up overnight as it appeared that the missing patient had not been home and there was no evidence of forced entry to his abode. There wasn't much else they could do until morning, so Walt had agreed that he and Vic could hold the fort and take turns sleeping and searching through the available files for possible leads or inconsistencies. There was so much they didn't know, such a fog of hidden dangers and potential betrayals, his brain was suddenly unable to concentrate on any one thing so he'd reluctantly accepted Vic's offer of the first rest shift.

It was all a bit surreal, the bewildering host of variables in the monumentally changed landscape of his existence. The highs and lows had done a number on his system with the rush of positive endorphins from his night with Vic and the subsequent adrenaline crash, and the only valid option was to surrender to exhaustion. Words and shapes danced like distorted shadows on the backs of Walt's eyelids as he drifted into a fretful slumber…


Hey, do you know where my new shirt is? The blue one. I can't seem to find it.

A curtain of blonde hair flips to the side, revealing a pinched and haughty facial expression with lips painted an uncharacteristic blood red. There's no teasing warmth to be found here, nor any inclination to offer assistance.

Well, that's not the only thing you can't do, is it?

He's looking where the shirts are, but none of them are blue. Some of them are new, some old, but for whatever odd reason every last one of them is a rich and inky shade of black.

I'm trying. I don't know what else you want from me.

There's a brief snort of unamused laughter as she appears in the bedroom doorway, and the silhouette of her rather severe professional attire is thrown into angular relief by the flickering cast of firelight behind her.

It has nothing to do with what I want. It's about what THEY wanted.

She steps aside and he stumbles backward, one of a dozen black shirts clutched tight in his left hand as the silent and translucent shades take form in the space beyond.

Barlow. Branch. David Ridges. Hector. Chance Gilbert. Miller Beck.

Martha.

I'm so sorry. You could never know how sorry—

They don't respond, expressionless eyes piercing him as they continue to draw closer. Slowly extending his free hand, he isn't sure if he's reaching out or trying to shield himself. Friends and foes, the innocent and the evil. Had they all died because of him?

Gliding back into view, Donna smirks as though she can hear his thoughts ringing out. He doesn't know the rules of this universe, so maybe she can. Maybe they all can. There's a sudden dampness emanating from the material squeezed between his fingers, and when his gaze flickers down he can see smears of bright red along the edge of his palm. He tries to wipe the blood away using another part of the shirt, but the garment is saturated.

You were supposed to protect them. Who's going to be next? Your daughter? Your best friend? Your "favorite" deputy?

Her eyebrow is raised, lips twisted cruelly, and he understands her implication. He doesn't want to give her that power over him, knows that it is a choice he has to make. He's not sure how to make it, or even if he can. Ignoring Donna even as she hovers at the edge of his vision, he pins his hopes on them.

I don't know how to make it up to you. Will I ever be able to set it all right?

Their ghostly gazes are cold as they bear down on him. He watches Martha's familiar but oddly indistinct features as she tilts her head and hovers mere inches away, sheer grayish skin nearly tangible as his vision blurs trying to focus on something, anything.

Words reach his ears, but he swears he never saw Martha's lips move. Maybe they didn't— maybe Donna threw the venomous murmur from the other side of the room, or maybe he'd conjured Vic's voice from some impenetrable well of poison inside his own mind.

I doubt that's possible


Outside the anguish of the twisted dream world Walt feels a sudden warmth against his shoulder, accompanied by a gentle rocking motion. He's only surfaced about halfway, throat tight and limbs paralyzed as his eyes snap open at the sound of her worried entreaties as she tries to shake him out of it.

"Walt, Walt! Wake up. Are you having a nightmare? Fuck, I thought that shit was for nine year olds—"

Her curses imbue him with sudden strength and he groans out a shuddering exhale, arms shooting out to wrap around Vic and draw her down into his embrace. She's clearly surprised but cooperative, cradling his head and wrapping one arm around his shoulders as he buries his face in the side of her neck and breathes her name.

Skin cool and touched with fading hints of soap and perfume, Vic holds him like he wants to be held. Something changes as his arms tighten around her and she whispers soothing words against the shell of his ear. Walt doesn't feel the slightest inclination to hide, and he basks in the total lack of judgement from his partner as Vic's fingers slide soothingly along the skin just beneath his shirt collar.

"It's okay. Everything's gonna be alright."

If only for that fleeting instant, he believes her.


Well, I think we all knew in a fic based around dreams Walt would have to have an ooky nightmare eventually. It was awfully easy to write about Donna being creepy because let's face it— she's a bit creepy already, at least in my opinion. LOL!

Please let me know what you thought of this, and if you have theories about the remainder of the story! I love hearing from everyone. Fancy coffees with every review, spiked upon request! ;D