you are not here by chance. longmire. walt/vic. so when are you going to ask me about my tattoo?

A/N #1: I have actually written this around the end of 2013 and hadn't much revised it, so it very obviously ignores the events from season 3 onward. It follows my other fic 'Cold Feet' and while I don't consider this one to be a sequel, it is definitely in the same universe.

It was published on AO3 back in 2015 and I forgot to post it here too, so here it is.

A/N #2: I'm a fan of both the show and books, so I may stole some elements from both.

A/N #3: I got the idea of Vic's other tattoo after a seeing that picture of Katee Sackhoff for the Acting Outlaw calendar.

Tattoos have never really been his thing, truth be told.

But Walt's not surprised to see bona fiscalia tattooed on Vic's right arm, though. He's been long accustomed to it, especially during summer time when she rolls the sleeves of her government-issued deputy shirt up.

Public property; it seems to fit somehow, with her line of work. He can only guess, though; he's never asked the reasons behind those Latin words and she never shared that particular bit of information.

But he's never seen the one etched across her left side until one cold winter night and he's tempted to ask about the flourished you are not here by chance under his hand as he palms her ribcage, but then she's guiding his mouth to her breast and he thinks that this can wait.

"So, when are you going to ask me about my tattoo?" she says one morning (on week 2 of their relationship) while they're driving to Powder Junction for a D&D (it's also been a slow week and he's glad because he finds that he gets distracted a lot lately, especially when she's around and when they're alone in his office). "You've been staring at it a lot."

He just glances at her once, twice and notices the satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, and he has this urge to kiss it away. He decides to keep his eyes on the road, instead. "Oh come on. You thought I wouldn't notice?" He glances at her again. But the smile is suddenly gone and she looks out the window, watches as snowflakes twirl in the air. "I know you're not a big fan of them."

"A few are okay, I guess. Don't take it the wrong way," he quickly adds the last part.

"Mm."

He feels like, somehow, this is a subject to actually be treaded carefully. So he doesn't ask, and she doesn't push.

On a cold Friday night they decide to go to the Red Pony and meet with Cady and Branch (he didn't think it was that good of an idea but Cady and Vic were actually getting along and it was all he could ask for.)

In honor of rodeo night, she goes for a black dress that hugs her in all the right places and the cowboy boots she bought on a shopping trip to Billings; but all he can think about is what's hiding underneath (you are not here by chance), the vivid image of watching her shimmy her way into the little black number burned on his retinas as he lay on her bed, watching her get ready, the knowing smile on her face every time she caught him staring.

He couldn't wait to slide it off her.

I'm a pervert.

"Believe me, you are not," Henry smirks as he suddenly appears behind him and Walt wonders whether he spoke out loud and wasn't aware of it or if his friend can read his mind.

(both options are scary.)

He watches Vic cheer for Cady as his daughter decides to wrestle with the mechanical bull Henry had installed in the corner. "She has a tattoo," he says.

Henry looks at him as if he's grown two heads. "She does," he replies slowly, unsure.

"I'm not talking about the one on her forearm."

"Oh."

"She has one," he motions to his side, "here."

"Oh. So you have seen her naked. That is a relief."

"You're a smartass."

"What does it say? About damn time, Walt?"

"Jackass." He hears Henry laugh as he makes his way over to Vic.

His hand settles lightly on her hip and she sharply turns around, a smile spreading over her face when she realizes that it's him. "Hey you."

"So how is it going over here?" He points to the mechanical bull as Branch helps Cady hop down from it.

"Pretty good, actually. I wish I could have a try at it wearing that ridiculously small dress just to see your face, but then, maybe just telling you would do the trick."

Goodness gracious.

She laughs, before giving him a quick peck on the lips.

"Too easy."

Just as he watched her put on the dress a few hours ago at her place, he's watching her taking it off at his and making a show of it.

You're too serious, she told him once, which is probably why she's goofing around and having a hard time keeping her composure as her dress hits him in the face.

When he can see again, she's already straddling him. Her fingers play with the buttons of his shirt before she cocks her head to the side with a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. She takes his cowboy hat off his head and puts it on hers. She makes a face as it sinks in too low and falls over her eyes, so she flicks it upwards with one finger.

"I thought you didn't like my hat," he says a little breathless at the sight of her.

"I said that if I had to wear one, I'd quit."

"If I remember correctly, I didn't say you were hired by the time you said that."

"Oh, please."

He hums low in his throat, knowing that she likes it. So when he carefully takes the hat off her head, tangles his fingers in the hair at the back of her head and tells her c'mere, she doesn't resist.

Later, when he's finally caught his breath and wonders if he's ever going to look at the couch the same way again, he runs his index finger along the inked words on her skin and she makes a sound that resembles a giggle. He makes a mental note and files it away for later use. "You're not here by chance," he reads aloud. "Tell me about this one?"

She clears her throat, licks her lips and blinks slowly. "I got it after the divorce, a little while before we got together," she pauses and he thinks she's going to leave it at that before she speaks again. "Sean was gone and there was no way I'd go back to Philly and beg for my old job back after—you know."

He suddenly feels silly for asking about it while they sit naked on his couch; feels silly for even asking at all.

She runs a hand down his cheek. "I could have left and gone anywhere, though."

"But you didn't."

"No, I didn't. I still miss Philly, you know? But I learned to like it here. And there's you. I love being with you. So I guess it reminds me that I choose to be here, not only before, but tomorrow and the day after that."

"I like the sound of that." He runs his hands along her thighs and she brings her forehead to his before softly head-butting him.

"Mm. I bet you do." She kisses him slowly and languidly and it makes his head spin. When they part, she traces the identical pair of scars on his chest, the ones she knows he inflicted upon himself believing that the Cheyenne ritual would help save his daughter. "My tattoos tell my story. Like your scars tell yours. We just chose to tell them in a different way."

He watches her as she gets off his lap and disappears into his bedroom. He hears the ruffle of a drawer being opened and then shut, before she reappears a moment later dressed in yoga pants and a t-shirt just as he's putting his pants back on. "It's getting chilly," she remarks, rubbing at her arms.

"I guess I'm the one to go outside and bring some more firewood?"

She bats her eyelashes comically, failing miserably at hiding her grin. "I'll make coffee?" she offers but he doesn't move. "I can also make pancakes, too? That is, if there's actually something in your fridge other than Rainier beers."

"At 2 in the morning?" he insists.

"I'm hungry. You know that sex makes me hungry."

She pouts and he sighs; he knows he's doomed. "Okay, you win."

She's already busying herself in the kitchen and his hand is on the doorknob when he turns. "Hey, Vic?"

She half turns around, distracted. "Mm?"

"What about that tattoo on your forearm?"

She stares at it for a moment, as if lost in thought before she grins wickedly. "That's what happens when you turn 18, trying to piss off your parents and thinking that's actually a good idea."

He's unsure whether she's joking or not. Knowing her, she probably isn't.

"Any regrets about it?"

She smiles, the glint in her eyes familiar. "Not a chance."

—end.