Hey, all! Still trying to keep up with my approximately once a week posting schedule. The story didn't progress as far as I planned in this chapter, but honestly I'm in no hurry here and I hope you aren't either.

I took a little detour to Eamonn's perspective in the first part of this chapter, so I will be interested to see how people respond to his point of view. Thank you for continuing to share your comments with me, I love reading and responding to the feedback!

Dreamcatcher
Part IV

Eamonn

There had been many times in the past few months where he had wondered what it was about the man.

Sure, he knew that Sheriff Longmire of Absaroka County was something of a local legend. Walt's daring exploits and occasionally unusual methods of achieving justice had been recounted throughout the surrounding counties, including Eamonn's own Cumberland, since long before the unexceptional and unsuspecting Deputy O'Neill arrived on the scene.

As a matter of fact, Eamonn had been almost disappointed when Sheriff Wilkins had loaned him out only to discover that the reason Absaroka needed support was that Longmire himself was out of commission on voluntary leave. The tale of Walt avenging his wife's killer in some sort of blood-soaked old west style standoff along with his subsequent exoneration by the FBI had spread through Cumberland's deputies like wildfire, and Eamonn was almost certain that the only reason Jim chose to send him to help their neighboring county was because he was the only one in the office who didn't outright beg for the chance to go.

Eamonn's disappointment was lessened somewhat once his paperwork was sorted and he arrived for his first day on the job only to meet Deputy Victoria Moretti, essentially the acting sheriff during her boss's voluntary absence. Vic, as she insisted he call her, had a reputation of her own both as Walt's de facto partner and as a bit of a hard ass in her own right. Eamonn could now confirm that the latter was true both figuratively and, he was unable to avoid noticing, literally.

Working with Vic had been simultaneously easier and more difficult than Eamonn ever could have expected. There was no doubt she knew her job inside and out, but there was a vulnerability beneath the surface of her that he couldn't quite puzzle through at first. He learned details of her story in dribs and drabs, from overheard exchanges between Ruby and Ferg and variably caustic remarks made by Vic herself.

There was her recent divorce, something about a 'crazy motherfucker with a baseball bat' which Eamonn eventually understood as a veiled reference to Walt Longmire's somewhat mysterious takedown of known radical Chance Gilbert, the death of Branch Connally, and the apparent 'shitstorm' that followed.

Also, Vic's eyebrow twitched almost every time Walt was mentioned, but Eamonn didn't think it was prudent to point it out when she had both an obvious tell and a reputation as the best shot in three counties.

And that was what Eamonn found himself wondering most about, even now as worn out twenty year old country songs blared from the speakers at the surprisingly busy Red Pony. Peering across at Vic, looking far too attractive to be frowning so deeply with her head propped up against one palm as she twirled the straw in her third whiskey sour, Eamonn wondered exactly what it was about Walt that kept a woman like this in his thrall no matter how capriciously or indifferently he treated her.

For his own part, Eamonn didn't care about his collateral losses. It was Walt's department and he could do as he pleased— if that included dismissing a loaner deputy from another county in a convoluted fit of jealousy? So be it. He'd seen his own boss back in Cumberland do worse for less scrupulous reasons.

At first he'd assumed it was a one-sided attraction on the part of the older sheriff toward his nubile younger deputy, even if Vic had talked about her boss an awful lot while he was gone. Eamonn had realized he was very, very wrong in his assumption even before Vic revealed that she'd used their one night stand as ammunition in her ongoing war of attrition with Walt. He'd probably realized it deep down before their clothes had even hit the floor, but in some aspects of life hindsight is most definitely 20/20.

He probably should have understood sooner why being in a room with Walt and Vic at the same time was like waiting for an unpredictably programmed bomb to go off. The tension had been obvious from the get go, but Eamonn erroneously figured there might be some sort of professional beef between them or that the heavy awkwardness was related to Walt's absence and Vic's different leadership style during that time. He'd even asked Ferg about it once. "Are they always like this?" With the only answer being a wide-eyed non-committal nod/shake of the head.

Returning his mind to present matters, Eamonn watched Vic absently stab at the cherry in the bottom of her glass.

"So, how are things?"

Eamonn knew Vic still met him because she needed someone to talk to, and she'd usually do so after a drink or two and some prompting. He was sure he'd never worked this hard on a relationship of any kind with so little in the way of direct positive return, but in spite of his better judgement he just liked her. She didn't seem to have many friends in Wyoming, and now that he appreciated the circumstances a bit better he could see why she couldn't exactly confide in her roommate of all people…

Vic made a quiet 'tsk' sound. "What things?"

"The same things we always talk about." He shrugged, peeling at the label of his one half-full light beer. He figured he might as well cut to the chase, since Vic didn't seem in the mood for small talk. "Figure anything out with Walt yet?"

She rolled her eyes. "Are you asking because you hope I'm gonna sleep with you again?"

"No," he posited. The idea might have a certain appeal, but Eamonn was smart enough to know that any sexual encounter between them at this point in time would be both meaningless and inadvisable. "I'm asking about Walt because that's always what's bothering you when you're like this."

If she objected to his phrasing, Vic didn't show it. Wouldn't most women have a passive aggressive comeback? "When I'm like what?" As a man Eamonn had made that mistake enough times to know what to expect. But Victoria Moretti had shown herself well capable of defying many of his expectations. Instead of firing off a sassy retort she took a slow sip of her rapidly depleting drink, huffed out a breath, and delivered her reply.

"Walt doesn't give a shit about me."

Eamonn held the opinion that Vic's assessment was likely far from the truth, judging from what he had experienced and even from the spotty second hand reports provided by Vic during these weekly drinking sessions. There was something in her tone that begged him not to push the issue tonight— a melancholy that skirted a bit too close to the fine line bordering on maudlin after three fairly potent drinks. Maybe this time, talking about it really wasn't the best solution.

A subject change might do the trick. He'd noticed the small band-aid on Vic's forehead. A minor injury seemed like a safe topic among colleagues in the law enforcement profession. "What happened to your head?"

One of her hands reached up, fingers brushing over the bandage as if she had forgotten it was there. Her eyes darted to the side and misted over, and Eamonn wondered how he'd managed to say the wrong thing yet again.

"I don't want to talk about it, okay? Let's just have another drink."

That didn't sound like a good idea either, but as long as one of them was sober it didn't seem like his place to stop her if that was what she wanted. Eamonn just couldn't win tonight, a suspicion confirmed in his mind by the sudden appearance of Sheriff Longmire himself looming a few scant feet away out of Vic's sight behind her right shoulder.

They were seated along one wall of the large, noisy main bar, adjacent to the narrower area leading to the restrooms and entrance. As a fairly decent cop (he thought) it immediately occurred to Eamonn that the taller man could have been just around the corner this whole time listening to their conversation. And if the thunderous but oddly wounded expression on his face was any indication, Walt had heard every word.

Why did Eamonn have to ask about her head? After three Red-Pony-strength cocktails, Vic had almost managed to forget about the bittersweet thrill of Walt's fingers on her skin as he doctored her wound that afternoon. Wasn't that the whole point of drinking? To relax and erase the worries of the day? She briefly also wished that she could erase the confused swarm of feelings that she still had for Walt despite her better efforts, but was just as quick to dismiss the idea. Vic had made a promise to be honest with herself, and in some ways the pain was better than pretending those emotions weren't there… that was Walt's MO, not hers.

She knew he had been trying to talk to her, earlier in the reading room and later at Cady's place, and she was unsure whether it was fear of continued rejection that caused her to deflect his attempts or panic that Walt might want something… else. When he'd leaned into her after taking care of her cut, it had seemed like it. She could almost still feel the gentle burn of his big hand wrapping around her wrist as those blue eyes traveled over her face like he was searching for clues.

Clues to what? Her feelings? Her mental health? The likelihood that she might return the unintentional favor he'd done her that day with Nighthorse and sock him across the nose? As tempted as she may have been to react in such a way, Vic knew she could never intentionally hurt him. Not like that.

His nearness had paralyzed her, pure animal instinct triggering the fight or flight response that had her running from him once again. She'd played dumb at Cady's house, while simultaneously trying not to revel in the opportunity to let Walt wonder where she might be going. She'd tried making him jealous once already. That attempt had gone up in flames faster than Dr. Monaghan's stupid van, coincidentally at very close to the same time.

Usually she found comfort in these conversations with Eamonn. At least she got things off her chest, and he seemed to have a knack for calming her down. Eamonn had been a good friend to her in spite of her past treatment of him, never pushing to redefine the status of their relationship and giving her space to work through things on her own. Tonight she was too agitated to talk about any of the things that were weighing on her mind, and while the alcohol didn't seem to be helping she felt an inexplicable craving for it just the same.

Speaking of which, hadn't she just suggested they get another drink? Flipping a strand of hair away from her shoulder, Vic used the straw to suck up the remains of her whiskey sour before plucking the cherry out from between the ice chunks by its stem and catching the sweet fruit between her teeth. Eamonn looked distracted with something behind her, so she turned slightly to see if she could catch the overtaxed barmaid's eye or if she would need to make her way up to the bar.

As Vic's head swiveled, an object encroached and blocked her view. For the first time that night she wondered if maybe she had drank too much too quickly, on an empty stomach at that. She was feeling a bit lightheaded, and it took several moments to focus in on the shapes and textures in front of her- longer than it should have to recognize the gleam of tawdry neon as it glanced over the smooth surface of an all too familiar belt buckle.

Eyes widening in recognition her gaze trailed up the line of pearl buttons, climbed the weathered neck, and dragged along the edge of the stubbled jaw until she reached the fierce and rugged summit of Walt's face.

She swallowed the cherry.

Hands on his hips, Walt peered down at her intently. The dim lighting cast shadows over his features, especially from this angle, and although she could see his eyes she was having difficulty identifying his exact demeanor. It could have something to do with the alcohol impairing her ability to judge facial expressions, or maybe he was just playing it close to the chest like he so often did.

It made Vic feel guilty when she realized she'd practically forgotten Eamonn was there until he spoke.

"Hey, Sheriff. I was just going to grab us another drink. Do you, umm—?"

The guilt increased as Walt pointedly ignored the younger man's attempt at politeness. Observing the three empty tumblers in front of her, the corner of Walt's mouth twitched downward in what was probably disapproval. He reached over to grasp her by the elbow, gently but firmly tugging upward. His voice was gruff and emphatic, and Vic hated the pleasurable shiver it sent down her spine.

"Come on, I'm taking you home."

Oh dear, I'm not so sure Vic will react favorably to Walt's approach here, especially with three whiskeys rapidly metabolizing through her system. What do you guys think?

I feel a bit bad for Eamonn— he didn't get a pitcher of sangria or even half a light beer dumped over his head (just yet), but I'm not sure any of the participants are going to come out of this little confab unscathed. I guess only time will tell. :-0

Leave me a review and I'll make sure you get an extra cherry in your whiskey sour! I have connections...