Survival

Chapter 12

Laundry Day Part II

Okay, so I keep rewriting and extending this, and I keep thinking of more thing to add to it. Some of you have seen a scene or two. Oh, well, time to let it fly and be free. Another couple chapters of this are nearly ready to add to this one. We're finally catching up to Chapter One and going to move into the future…

An installment of Leaving Durant is next up, probably tomorrow, for those who have been asking.

Laundry Day continued…

It was a good thing they had tarped up the new washer and dryer, metal water and new dryer hoses and a bag full of new hardware. A mid-afternoon thunderstorm had blown in, and it was raining heavily as they pulled up to the back of the cabin. Great gouts of water blew off the roof and completely ignored the downspouts. They had been slowed to a crawl, so the hour drive from Sheridan had taken almost two.

"If we can get them unloaded onto the back porch, we can install them at our leisure," Walt said. He began to back the truck close to the porch door.

"O-ka-kay," she said, rubbing her arms. The temperature had gone down at least 30 degrees in the last hour. In his jacket, he was fine, but he could see the flesh of her arms had goose-pimples all over it.

He debated only a moment before removing his jacket, throwing it over her, and trotting to the back of the truck. He unthreaded the tarp, removed the dolly and got the washer in position. By the time he was beginning to slide the unwieldy machine toward him, she had vaulted into the truck bed sans jacket, and was pushing the washer toward him. So much for his chivalry, but he quickly availed himself of the help, managed to get it onto other end of the small covered porch, and came back for the dryer. After both pieces were safely unloaded, he removed the hardware from the pickup bed. She went back to the cab, and brought in his hat, jacket and the bag with the boots, receipts and manuals.

They left her truck parked at the back porch.

When he got in, he lit the fire he kept laid, warm or cold out. Bighorn weather could change on a dime. By the time he got it going, she was wearing an ancient, faded Trojans sweatshirt of his with frayed sleeves which were rolled up about three times, and making coffee. It took him a few minutes to realize she was no longer wearing the capris, and he wondered with more interest than he probably should have had at the moment, what she might be wearing under the sweatshirt.

"Shirt looks better on you, than me," he said gruffly, but he noticed she was still shivering and he realized that he was, too.

"Oh, go take a hot shower and get warm," she said. "You got wetter than I did. Coffee will be hot and waiting when you get out."

He debated. "I'll take you up on that," he said, "after we get them running." He went and took off his wet shirt, throwing on another sweatshirt as a stop-gap. Together they resembled a bedraggled Old Navy ad.

She shrugged, and he could see she was still pretty cold. Hopefully the fire would warm the whole place. Just in case it didn't, he put one of his space heaters near where they'd be hooking things up.

A half-hour later, she loaded all their whites into the washer, added bleach, and set it to wash. They were both dusty, and she had a streak of something across her nose. He was pretty sure he smelled of sweat and dust. He was on his back, just finishing up leveling the feet under the dryer, small wrench in hand.

She looked down at him, grinning. "Fucking long white boxers," she said with a mischievous grin and glint in her eye.

He quickly determined that the dryer feet were as level as they would ever be.

"Oh, yeah?" he asked softly, and took the gamble he'd been wanting to take for months. He dropped the wrench, took her hand and pulled her down on top of him. She landed, elbows bent, hands on his chest.

She gave a little inhalation and looked suddenly soft, and maybe more than a little vulnerable, as in open to the idea, so he leaned up and took her mouth with his, firm, open, but not exploring...yet, just asking permission. Her eyes changed right before him, went all smoky, the tarnished gold looking more feral than ever.

She pulled back just a little, brows furrowed in question. "Now?" she asked, as though marveling that they were touching at all. She laid there balanced on his chest, and let her fingers wander his face.

"Isn't this better than in front of all of Durant at someone else's wedding, or in a soap-hole?" He rubbed a thumb over her nose, removing the smudge there.

She gave a huge wondering grin. "You wanted to do this at the soap-hole?"

He made a non-committal noise. She still seemed to be evaluating their new position.

"Florian sorta helped me make up my mind."

"You mean…"

"He, um, got my engine running when he ripped your dress."

She gave one of her snorts at that, but ran her hand along his cheek. "Yeah, he did get to touch them before you did…"

"I should take him an apple as a thank-you."

He ran his large hands up under the sweatshirt to the anatomy in question, weighing, grazing them with his thumbs, puckered nipples belying her cool retorts.

"Custom fit," he said.

"So," she said in kind of an unsteady voice, "the units are hooked up and running, and I'm still fucking freezing…"

"Didn't you mention a shower a while back?" he asked in a gentle voice he hadn't heard come out of his mouth for a long while.

"Yes," she said, tentatively, and then more firmly, "yes, I did."

He rolled her off him and jumped to his feet, pulling her with him, before scooping her up and carrying her toward the bathroom. He just hoped that with all the dirty laundry, he still had some clean towels for her.

"Am I finally going to meet the infamous sheriff burrito shower system?" she asked with delight, arms around his neck, laughing as he deposited her on her feet in the center of the bathroom, but he noted her teeth were chattering a little.

"Of worldwide notoriety," he acknowledged gravely, rummaging for towels and finding two, then setting the shower on, before returning to her, putting one towel around her and taking her hands in his. She regarded him warily, teeth still chattering a little.

"I guess this is it…" and then, with more certainty he took a breath. "No, this is it, where I offer you my heart and body, my hearth and home, my wordly goods, hopefully the sheriff's job in a few years, my name if you want it, and maybe a baby or two down the road, if you are so inclined…"

Her eyes went huge. She swallowed hard, and he thought, I've blown it. Too much, too soon, but he didn't want to start anything he wasn't willing to finish.

"Oh, Walt," she said, as though short of breath, or in disbelief. He touched her cheek, chilled and pale. She framed his face with trembling hands, exclaiming, "Oh—fuck it!" as she launched herself at him. She kissed him like no one else ever had before, drawing on him, first sipping and tentative, and then wet and heavy as though she were hungry for all of him at once.

He gave back as good as he got, began to bestow open-mouthed kisses, touching her everywhere, beginning with pulling up the concealing sweatshirt and tossing it across the room. As he moved down from her neck to her torso, he began to see how scratched and bruised she was, to just below her waist. He paid special attention with his mouth and hands to Florian's handiwork at a bruise on her right torso at the ribs, even while her hands tugged at his hair, trying to pull him up to kiss him again. He held back, dragging down the flowered bikinis for her to step out of, before she returned the favor with his belt and jeans. Maybe so it wouldn't get wet, she unthreaded his belt and tossed it toward the bedroom.

He had a few days of stubble, and hoped it had come in soft enough it would not prickle too much. When they were both naked and laughing and unsure, but both overwhelmed with the undeniable evidence of wanting, he picked her up and together they made the short journey to become Durant's first Sheriff and Deputy Combo Burrito.

He was relieved he had gone for the sturdier 2x6 cabin construction as he backed her to the edge of the shower, with the plastic sheeting unsuccessfully attempting to asphyxiate them as they went for the main event. Sundress and boots be damned, he was in heaven now.

XXX

It was still dark, middle of the night, he gauged. She was lying on his chest, head lolling to one side, almost purring. He felt an expansive sense of well-being, maybe even a hint of smugness for having the capacity to please her in the bed as well as the shower, before they gave suitable attention to the meal Henry had left, after which they had both succumbed to exhaustion. Something occurred to him, maybe it should have sooner, but everything had pretty well overpowered him there in the shower, well, and then later, to the exclusion of all else.

"Vic…" he ventured.

"Mmmmm," was her articulate reply.

"Have you decided?"

"Mmmmm. She sighed, propped herself up a little and turned her head so she was facing him. Bleary, not real awake yet? "Decide whattt? If you're asking coffee, then that would be a yes."

"You know. Us."

She sounded unsure. "I do? Um, okay," she said, as though formulating thoughts sans coffee. "I think everything's good." She cleared her throat. "I'm on the pill until we decide otherwise, Doc Bloomfield himself has been testing us for everything for years, because we're both exposed to blood-borne pathogens in the field…I even went in after the divorce, just to be sure everything was okay after Sean. We're both of age, consenting adults, not seeing anyone…am I missing something? Is it Cady?" she asked hopefully.

"No. Not Cady." He said it firmly. "After that day in the bar…you were cleaning my ear…next time I saw her after I got back from Denver, she said she hoped we would be happy."

"Oh! I did not expect that! Then, is it Henry?"

"Nope. He's good with us." He took the proverbial bit in his teeth. "I'm talking about, what I asked you, um," he jerked his head, "in the shower."

"You asked me…"

"Yep. It was a proposal," he reminded her, just in case she had missed that point. They had both been distracted, after all. "But you didn't answer in the shower."

There was a pause. Then, "My answer…is that I am just so damned happy right now, I could cry. Right now, I just want to be happy."

He paused, paralyzed that he had ruined it all, pushed too fast. He nodded, hesitantly. That was when he suddenly realized that if she didn't want to marry him, he still wanted those morning coffees on the porch, he wanted her here like this, he wanted it all, but would take whatever she was willing to give, and hope she might want more at some undefined time down the road.

So, instead of pressing her further, he pulled her close and said, "Of course you can be happy. I'm happy, too."

"Happy, first time I've ever heard you say that. What about guilt…like the guilt you had after Martha?"

He held her a little tighter, and stubbornly that part of him woke up again. "I made my peace up there on the hillside where she and I were married, accordion, cheap champagne and all. I feel… ready for wherever we decide to go." He gave her a little squeeze in emphasis. "I wouldn't even mind if you wanted to model your new boots and put on my hat, later…"

Maybe she felt his interest. Maybe she was thinking. She murmured "Hmmmm…." disengaged and disappeared into the bathroom for a few minutes, returning in nothing but the boots and hat, and placing her iPod carefully next to the bed, straddled him.

"Save a horse, ride a cowboy…" she murmured in his ear, and the rest of him was instantly ready for action, but her hand on his chest stayed him. She whispered, "Whoa, I need to pay homage first."

He wasn't sure what that meant. She showed him, though, turning him onto his stomach, caressing his back, tracing and kissing the entirety of the scars on his back wet and thorough, top to bottom.

"For Martha," she whispered from near his neck, rolled him onto his back, ignoring his obvious interest, and moved to his chest. "For Cady," she whispered, kissing those marks, and finally, moved to his side and open-mouthed, hovered over and sweetly kissed his shoulder which had the permanent reminder of his duel with Chance. "And for me." She paused. "I hope the fuck these are the entire catalog of the Walt Longmire Scars Collection for our future together."

He nuzzled her neck in full agreement, at which time, she grabbed her iPod, restraddled him, put one earbud into his ear, one in hers, and played the song "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy," to his delight, which preceded more detailed instruction into her notions of the convolutions of hot monkey sex.

He woke once in the darkened room to a sense that all was right. She still slept in the circle of his arms, the firelight from the front room flickering shadows on the wall around them, the summer rain still tapping on the roof. The rain had brought a chill with it, but together, they were cozy and complete.

Her new boots and his hat, properly brim up for luck shared pride of place on his favorite overstuffed reading chair, where they had been flung during the night. Whatever she was willing to share with him, he hoped that seeing those things there would become a commonplace occurrence for many years to come.