A/N: i'm posting two sections at once because the first is so short and this one got ridiculously long so combined they sort of come to an equilibrium. zip says i should subtitle this 'five times that walt thought sean was a dickhead, and the one time he didn't really care'. it is A Theme.
The department's annual Christmas party would be a sad affair if family members and significant others weren't invited. Walt knows that. It doesn't mean he enjoys having to make the effort to talk to them. Twenty minutes in and he's already exhausted his tolerance for polite conversation.
His attention is split unevenly between a vague awareness of the party tables and a more keen surveillance of the Red Pony's swing doors. Several people have come in since he's been watching, but none are who he's looking for.
It's not like Vic to be late.
One of the many things he's learned about his newest deputy in the few months she's been working for him is that she's a consummate professional when it comes to things like procedure and punctuality. They're qualities Walt admires in general, though occasionally finds irritating on a personal level. Especially when she's expressing her dissatisfaction that he's failed to meet her exacting standards. At high volume and with great inventiveness.
Still, Vic hasn't experienced a Wyoming winter before, and though the weather's been comparatively mild for December, there are always potential hazards on the roads. An itch between his shoulder blades has been growing for the last ten uneasy minutes. Walt checks his watch again and decides to give her what's left of the half hour before he tries calling.
He tunes back in to the conversations around him just in time to hear Ferg say, "Hey, where's the mistletoe this year?"
The question is innocent, and thoughtless, and devastating.
Walt shoves back from the table and heads to the bar for his second beer, a stark silence in his wake. Catching Jess' eye and seeing her nod in return, he places his hands flat against the wooden countertop, trying to ignore the way his chest feels like a yawning, hollowed out crater.
The mistletoe was always Martha's bit of mischief.
Every year he'd ask her not to hang it and every year she'd promise faithfully that she wouldn't. Then there would come a point during the evening when he'd find himself standing under a sprig of the stuff that had appeared as if by magic. Martha would feign surprise and then proceed to kiss him very thoroughly in front of anyone who cared to look.
The ritual had always been a source of mild embarrassment for Walt, but right now he'd give anything for the chance to have her here to embarrass him like that just one more time.
Everybody seems to think that the milestones are the hardest: their anniversary, her birthday, his. But it's the small absences that can slice right through him and leave him bloodless and gasping. Martha is both everywhere and nowhere in the ordinary spaces of his days, and within that paradox stretches a minefield of grief waiting to explode.
Jess appears with his beer and a quick smile, yanking him back to the life and noise of the bar. Walt's just taken the first swallow when he hears Ruby's voice behind him.
"Here she is! Oh, Vic, you look lovely."
He turns, relieved and grateful for the distraction, then has to stop and do a swift internal recalibration. The woman Ruby's talking to is definitely Vic; there's no mistaking that. But it's a Vic who looks so unlike the one he knows that for a moment all he can do is stare.
Aside from the outfit she wore to her interview, he's only ever seen her in her work clothes. Tonight she's wearing a dress made of something that gleams with a warm luster as she moves. It's a dark, intense red, and against its rich color her skin looks as pale as fresh cream. Her hair, which he's only ever seen pulled back, frames her face and spills over her shoulders in a cloud of loose golden curls. Gone is his tough, brash deputy and in her place stands this woman made of soft curves and light.
'Lovely' is one hell of an understatement. She's dazzling.
Which is why Walt utterly fails to notice the man standing next to her until they're headed in his direction. A strange, unsettled feeling tightens his stomach.
"Hey," Vic says, coming to a stop in front of him with an overly bright smile.
The heels she's wearing add a few inches to her height and bring her closer to his eye level. He feels a mild sense of disorientation. "Vic."
She turns to the man next to her. "Walt, this is—"
"Sean Keegan," he interrupts, offering his hand. "I know I wasn't originally on the guest list tonight, but I just couldn't pass up the chance to finally meet the man who keeps stealing away my wife."
Walt sets down his beer and shakes the offered hand, taking in the false joviality, the bravado. There are undercurrents here he's not privy to. "Glad you could make it," he says before glancing at Vic.
She offers him a tight smile and then looks at her husband. In a voice pitched higher than he's used to hearing, she says, "Hon, let's get a drink and I'll introduce you to everyone else."
For the next hour, in between his own occasional and mercifully brief conversations, Walt watches Vic consistently steer Sean away from him. Something about her is altered tonight, beyond her changed appearance. In her husband's presence she becomes placating, conciliatory, somehow smaller. It's as if she's deliberately muting the vibrant force of her personality.
Sean, however, doesn't seem to think anything's amiss. He appears happily voluble, referring to Vic as "my wife" at every opportunity. Walt finds it grating. It reminds him of a dog feverishly marking its territory.
He's halfway through his third beer when Ruby sits down next to him.
"Well, he's certainly not what I was expecting."
Walt affects ignorance. "Who?"
"Vic's husband."
He makes a non-committal sound.
"Something's not quite right there. And she doesn't seem like herself tonight."
"I hadn't really noticed," he lies.
Ruby makes a thoughtful noise but doesn't say anything else. After a minute of silent observation she pats his arm before getting up and heading over to where her daughter and Cady sit with their heads together, laughing.
He hasn't heard Vic laugh even once tonight.
That thought is more sobering than Walt would like.
Eventually, Sean breaks away from his wife's supervision and wanders over. While Vic has been carrying the same glass of wine since they arrived, by Walt's count Sean has had at least four drinks. He stumbles against a chair before managing to sit.
"Walt!" he says, as though they're old friends reunited. "That's a name I hear a lot these days. Everything is 'Walt said this' and 'Walt thinks that' at our house." There's an ugly emotion behind the falsetto he adopts to mimic Vic. "My wife makes it sound as if you can just about walk on water."
Walt attempts to head off whatever's brewing with a diplomatic, "It's a small department. We all spend a lot of time together."
"Yeah, but, see, that's the thing." Sean leans forward conspiratorially. "She hardly talks about anybody else. Just you, Walt. That's pretty funny, right? My wife constantly talking about another man. Who she spends a shitload more time with than she spends with me. There are some guys who might have a problem with that, you know."
"But not you," Walt says wryly, as Sean's attention is caught by Vic's approach.
"My beautiful wife!" He beams beatifically. "We've just been having a little chat, me and your boss. Getting to know each other."
Her expression is equal parts embarrassment and irritation. "It's getting late. I think we should probably head home."
"It's not even 9.30!" Sean protests. "The party's just getting started. Besides," he adds, with a sidelong glance at Walt, "you're all dressed up and you don't want to waste all that effort just on me, do you?"
Vic clenches her jaw and holds out her hand. "Sean, c'mon."
He bats it away as he stands up, moving to pass her. "I'm not a child, Victoria."
"So stop acting like one," she snaps in a deadly undertone.
A look passes between them that Walt can't read, then Sean mutters something and walks off. Vic is still for a moment, watching him, before she turns back with a sigh. "Sorry."
Walt shakes his head. "Don't worry about it."
"He doesn't usually drink this much."
"Vic. It's okay."
This time her smile is genuine, the first one he's seen on her all evening. She transforms again into the woman he's spent the last few months getting to know.
He likes that woman. He's glad to have her back.
"So I should—" She gestures to where Sean stands by the bar looking petulant.
Walt salutes her with his beer. "Good luck."
"Thanks," she says with a roll of her eyes.
Watching her walk away, he thinks about how odd it is to hear someone call her Victoria. He's so used to the hard punch of Vic. Its single syllable, fast and direct as a bullet, suits her. Though perhaps the elegance of Victoria suits her just as well. Perhaps Victoria is someone only known to a select few. Walt feels a kernel of envy sneak under his ribs. He'd like to be one of those people.
Ruby was right. Sean is nothing like the man Walt expected Vic's husband to be. He's weak. And like all weak men he thinks he needs to dominate in order to be strong. He's afraid of losing hold of his wife and so he turns to posturing and casting blame. It's a cycle Walt's witnessed too many times to believe it can end well, but he hopes for Vic's sake that this time he's wrong.
Part of him would like to take Sean aside and explain a few things, but no man wants marital advice from someone he regards as a threat, no matter how misguided that fear is. Still, Walt doesn't like seeing Vic unhappy. And while she and Martha don't seem to have much in common at first glance, he knows a thing or two about being married to a woman whose strength matches or exceeds his own. Martha was no less a force than Vic for all that she was a quieter, more restrained one.
He has a momentary flash of amusement at the idea of the two of them butting heads. Then grief bears down on him as he remembers the reason why it's impossible. Grief and that strange, unsettled feeling from before.
Fortunately, he knows where to find solace.
Beer number four is something of a tipping point. He's not drunk by any means, but his thoughts take on a little more buoyancy and his surroundings have acquired a pleasant fuzziness. People wander in and out of his awareness; sometimes they talk to him, sometimes not. Oddly enough, Vic alone remains sharp and clear in his perception.
At a table across from him, she and Sean are engaged in a quiet but heated exchange. Walt watches as Sean gets up abruptly and stalks in the direction of the restrooms on unsteady legs. Vic takes a deep breath and seems to deflate as she lets it out. It occurs to him to wonder who she has to talk to in Wyoming aside from her husband. All the rest of her family and friends are back in Philadelphia. He feels a gentle swoop of sorrow at the thought she might be lonely.
Walt considers briefly that he should probably mind his own business. But he hasn't really gotten the chance to talk to her all night and he wants to. It surprises him how much he wants to.
"Hey," he says, sitting down next to her.
"Hey."
"Everything okay?"
"Oh, just peachy." Her tone is acidic enough to strip paint.
He studies her for a few moments, weighing the potential for awkwardness against the disquiet he feels at seeing her like this. "Want to talk about it?"
Vic looks at him with wide, startled eyes. There's real pain there, and vulnerability. Walt has the sudden desire to put his arms around her, comfort her. The strength of it shocks him.
Just as suddenly, Vic's expression reshapes itself into a more familiar anger. "We had a fight, I mean before we even left the house. Since we moved here he's always sniping at me about how much time I spend at work. He never had an issue with the job in Philly. I don't know what the fuck his problem is now. And tonight—" She breaks off with an agitated motion of her hands. "He wasn't even supposed to be back for two more days! But he shows up to "surprise" me and gets pissed because I won't blow off the party to stay home with him. Then when he decides to come along and acts like a dick all night, somehow that's my fault, too."
It all comes out in a rush, like built-up pressure escaping from a newly opened valve. Vic bites her lip and studies her unvarnished nails. For the first time Walt notices she's wearing her wedding ring. The gold band looks out of place on her hand.
"Anyway." She shrugs. "It's fine, no big deal. I just wish he'd picked a different night to make me feel like shit."
Her teeth have left shallow indents in her bottom lip. With her glossy red lipstick chewed off, they're easy to see.
The thought floats through his mind that kissing Victoria Moretti would not be a hardship.
He blinks, dismayed. Where the hell had that come from? Maybe he's a little more drunk than he thought.
"Well," he begins, with no idea what follows. He tries to think of some sage advice to offer on the vagaries of marriage and the things we endure for the people we love, but his brain keeps tripping over the idea of kissing. And he discovers that he's definitely more drunk than he thought because what comes out of his mouth is, "At least there's no mistletoe."
For a few seconds Vic just looks at him as though he's lost his mind. Then she bursts into bright, glorious laughter.
The room seems to light up around her.
It's a revelatory incandescence. In that instant Walt understands how Dorothy must have felt when she opened her black and white door in Kansas to find a land of riotous color stretching before her on the other side.
But he carries too many years and scars to not be afraid of all that promise. So he takes a single long look at what could be and then he gently shuts the door.
