Sorry for the delay with this. Updates may be sporadic for a while, as the busiest season at work has begun and my schedule will be somewhat erratic. Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to review, those comments and encouragements stoke the flames of inspiration! The feedback is appreciated more than you could know.

Dreamcatcher
Part V

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

It isn't true. It never has been and it never will be. It couldn't be any further from the truth no matter how bad of a job he'd done of showing it.

"Are you asking because you hope I'm gonna sleep with you again?"

Her tone possesses no teasing edge. It's weary, devoid of warmth, the opposite of what it should be when mentioning a supposed act of love.

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

Is this what she has with Eamonn? Is this what defines their 'relationship'?

Is this what he's driven her to by pushing her away?

In a strange moment of clarity Walt realized that he was assigning himself too much importance, assuming that Vic's actions and behaviors must revolve around him. During his therapy sessions he had discovered that much of his behavior toward her had been born from an unregulated and, at the time, unrecognized selfishness. Seeing and understanding the depth of his own arrogance for what it was had not been easy.

He thought he'd been motivated by a desire to keep everyone safe, to do what was best for all of them. The truth was he'd been afraid— he hadn't known how to deal with his emotions or how to decipher hers, and things had snowballed alarmingly each time they both refused to talk to each other about anything. The shrink sessions might have helped Walt own up to his share of the responsibility, but that didn't mean he had a damn idea what to do about it.

This was the low they had achieved, his cowardice now extended to petty eavesdropping with his back against the appropriately dingy unfinished wood wall and Vic just around the corner still stubbornly resisting any opportunity to unburden herself.

Maybe doing anything was better than doing nothing.

Walt adjusted his hat and took a deep breath before steeling himself and rounding the corner. He got a brief look at Eamonn O'Neill's face before he was spotted, and the younger man appeared to be viewing Vic with some amount of trepidation. As he approached, he assumed that might be a result of the growing number of empty glasses in front of her. Even though he'd liked to have blamed Eamonn for letting Vic drink so much, Walt was smart enough to know that there were times where nobody 'let' his deputy do anything and thus Eamonn was likely just attempting to keep his head above water.

Henry wasn't behind the bar, which was normal for a Thursday night even when considering the fact that nothing his oldest friend did lately seemed to qualify as such… but that was a worry for another day. Cady hadn't been picking up shifts anymore, and everyone in town knew Jess had the most generous pouring hand. Three of whatever Vic had been knocking back might be as good as four or five measured by a more stringent method.

From what he had overheard Walt didn't think you could call what he was interrupting a 'date,' but who was he to judge? He'd blurred those lines badly enough himself at times in the past, with Donna and Lizzie and even probably with Vic herself. That night in Arizona came to mind, the way they walked to their rooms after dinner like awkward teenagers on a first date. All that had been missing was the good night kiss, and when Vic had knocked on the pass-thru that teenage part of Walt still held out hope that he might get it.

He had never stopped wanting that, and so much more besides, even after things reached their worst point and he made an art form out of pushing Vic away. There had been days where Walt had needed to maintain a white knuckle grip on his famous self-control to keep from pulling Vic against him and showing her everything, both before and after her divorce was finalized. But he couldn't. Not at the hospital after Chance, not at the Red Pony after David Ridges. Not down by the river after Branch or in his office after Barlow, and most definitely not anywhere after Donna… as if Vic would have let him near her once the truth of that situation was revealed.

Maybe he needed to resign himself to the fact that they had ruined their chance, that the deep connection and the tender heat that had grown between them was all for nothing in the end. And yet, he'd once assured Henry in this very building that he wouldn't back down from a fight. Why should this be any different? Even if they could never be together the way they were in the dreams he'd been having of late, wasn't their friendship, their partnership, worth saving?

Vic's head turned just as Walt arrived beside the table, and he resisted the urge to swallow heavily as her eyes climbed his body like a slow caress. They locked gazes and for a few seconds Vic's defenses were down and Walt felt that buried connection thrumming between them. It was like they were in their own world, a wild country he wished he could lose himself in the act of exploring.

The trance was broken by Eamonn's cautiously diplomatic voice offering a drink, and Walt could see Vic's walls slamming back into place like a switch had been flipped. He didn't want that, couldn't let her hide from him if there was a chance she might finally let him in. In that moment all Walt could think of were those few seconds of openness, a softening of Vic's demeanor that he hoped wasn't only caused by the libations that she had consumed. It was obvious that she wasn't fit to drive after three strong cocktails, so his course of action seemed clear.

Before Walt even realized what he was doing, Vic's sweater-covered elbow was warm under his hand as he urged her to rise from the chair. "Come on, I'm taking you home."

At first Vic was compliant, rising to her feet and absently leaning into his touch. Walt responded by solidifying his grip, cradling her elbow with his fingers fanned out along the underside of her forearm. As he reached around to retrieve her jacket from the back of the chair she stiffened, eyes darting from his face over to Eamonn and back again.

Shrugging away from his touch, Vic hugged herself. "No. I'm not ready to leave." Her pink lips pressed together, eyes wide and a bit glassy but still more than able to focus. "Eamonn, how about that drink?"

Walt's attention was fixed on Vic but one of his hands gestured toward the younger man still seated at the table, fingers fanned out in a halting manner. "I really don't think you need another."

"Well I don't really care what the fuck you think!"

Jaw clenching, Walt reminded himself that they were not on duty and Vic's reaction was therefore well outside the parameters of insubordination. Vic tilted her head and raised an eyebrow at Eamonn, who glanced between sheriff and deputy and showed no sign of making a move.

"Fine, I'll get it myself."

Both men watched as Vic stalked off toward the bar, heeled boots lengthening the line of her body as she sidestepped a pair of off-duty ranch hands with only the slightest hint of a wobble. Walt pried his eyes away and slid them over to Eamonn.

"How long did it take her to drink those?" He pointed to the empty tumblers with one long finger.

Eamonn looked at his watch. "A little over an hour? I tried to talk her into dinner but she said she already ate."

"Vic took a blow to the head today, you know. She probably shouldn't be drinking at all." Walt frowned, craning his neck to pick out Vic's distinctive blonde hair through the crowd around the bar.

"I didn't know, and she wouldn't talk to me about it." Eamonn placed the flats of his hands on the table and rose slowly. "Walt, you must know I wouldn't have let her drive like that."

Walt did know— but it didn't stop the jealousy from flaring in his gut at the idea of Eamonn taking care of Vic, steadying her with his touch, being the one there for her to lean on in her vulnerable state of inebriation. "You better let me take it from here."

Raising both hands, palms facing outward, Eamonn surrendered the point as if to say, 'No way am I putting myself in the middle of this.' What actually came out of his mouth was a far more neutral "Okay. Tell Vic to give me a call if she needs anything."

"I'm sure she'll appreciate that," Walt vocalized, although he was convinced that Eamonn caught the less than subtle undertone of 'I won't be relaying your message.'

By the time Walt reached Vic's side at the leftmost end of the bar, she had made what appeared to be quick work of half an additional cocktail and the empty remains of Jess's famously potent house special shooter.

"I uhh, got your things." He held up the jacket and cellphone for Vic to see. She didn't generally carry a purse, and had her wallet perched next to her elbow on the bar.

"Whoop de freakin' do."

Her changeable irises looked greener than usual peering out from the smoky makeup, the whites standing out in the dim light as she executed one of those trademark eye rolls. She took a long sip of her drink through a pair of black cocktail straws.

Persisting, Walt mirrored her stance and leaned in. "You ready? I'll take you home."

"I don't have a home. I'm completely fucking homeless." A pained expression crossed her face. "Maybe you should just take me to the station and let me sleep in the cell."

Walt's forehead crinkled beneath the brim of his hat. "Don't say that," he began, pushing away the thought that he'd been planning to sleep in the jail himself. "Come on, I'll take you back to Cady's."

There was a wet sucking sound as Vic drained the last of the drink, and Walt watched her attentively as she dug for the cherry in the bottom of her glass. "Where's Eamonn?"

"He left." It shouldn't have hurt that she asked for Eamonn, but it did. It just stung, no matter how much Walt realized that he was the one who had intruded regardless of the nature of Vic and Eamonn's meeting.

"Oh."

Clearing his throat, Walt took a chance and gently placed his hand in the small of Vic's back to guide her. "Let's go."

This time, she didn't resist.

"You don't have to walk me to the door, Walt. I'm fine."

"Gotta make sure you get inside alright."

They were both still stubborn to the last, but some things never do change.

The short ride back to Cady's had been tense and silent, with Vic staring out the window as Walt wondered whether she was angry with him or just too numbed out to start a conversation. She would barely speak to him when they were both sober, but sometimes a bit of alcohol could loosen the tongue. He missed talking to her, or at least listening since Vic generally produced most of the actual words.

Just before Vic reached the bottom of the front steps her boot caught on an uneven paving stone, and she pitched forward with a yelp of surprise. Without a second thought Walt reached out and wrapped his arms around her, preventing her impending face-first collision with the wooden stairs and pulling her safely back against him.

Vic was breathing heavily, fingers splayed atop Walt's forearms where they were wrapped firmly around her midsection. "Fuck," she whispered, "I think I need another drink."

Feeling a bit intoxicated himself Walt shifted, bowing his head so his lips were even with Vic's ear. "No you don't," he rumbled.

She turned in his arms, eyes slightly wide with the adrenaline and alcohol. Walt couldn't seem to do the sensible thing and let go, so he held on tight as a passing breeze ruffled Vic's already wilder than usual locks of blonde hair. This was getting dangerous…

"You're only nice to me when I'm drunk."

Closing the distance, Vic leaned her face into the side of Walt's neck as her hands rested against his shirt front. Walt's breath hitched, and he thought about that night by the river when he'd buried Vic's expired possum. How badly had he wanted to hold her then, just like this? Now that she was letting him, he was finding it hard to stop even though he knew he should.

He rubbed her back with one hand, resting his palm between her shoulder blades. "I'll be nicer, I promise."

Vic's form relaxed even further into him, hands traveling up and over his shoulders as her warm breath teased at the line of his jaw. The next words were barely audible, and Walt was almost certain she hadn't meant to speak them out loud.

"Maybe if I drink enough you'll love me back."

Heart beating like a kick drum, Walt pulled away just enough so he could see Vic's face. He brought one hand up to touch her cheek, falling into her dazed but inviting expression as those entrancing eyes glowed back at him in the moonlight.

"Vic. I—"

He never got to finish his sentence. The porch light switched on and their bodies sprung apart, gazes locked and chests heaving as Cady poked her head out the door to check if everything was alright. Vic recovered quickly, shooting Walt one last glance full of confused longing as she ascended the steps and entered the house. He himself was twisted up with anxiety, wondering just how intoxicated his deputy had actually been and what if any of this she would remember come morning.

Waving goodnight to Cady, Walt found himself left alone on the front walkway with the rest of his response to Vic's mind-bending declaration still lodged in his throat:

I already do. I have for a long time.

Hmmmm... well! What *will* Vic remember about this incident? And will Walt do that Walty thing that he does where he pretends everything is totally cool and normal while internally freaking out? Will Vic let him get away with it? And how much did Cady see, anyway? I think we all know she's smart enough to see that something is up.

I'm sure you're all terribly relieved that Eamonn escaped without having a Mai Tai or any other tropical concoction poured over his head. But hey, you never know. I'm still not sure how many chapters this story will have so there's still time!

Drop me a review and receive your choice of a Blue Hawaiian, a White Russian, or an Orange Julius! That last one is in there for the teetotalers... ;D