Missing Scenes

Missing Scenes will be just that: scenes from television *or* books which we are not privy to in any manner. These could go on for numerous chapters, especially as the season(s)—I use the plural here, because *hopefully* that is correct, play out...

What happened after Vic drove back up the canyon, not knowing if Walt was dead or alive in S3E7 "Population 25?" For example, what happened in S2E1 "Unquiet Mind" as and after Walt was rescued from the mountain?

I don't want to spoil the books, for you if you haven't read them, so be warned, a few *spoilers* come next: From the books, might be some infill how Walt and Vic's relationship went from 0-100 in five minutes in KGU, and then backpedaled to idle until a couple of books down the road… Or, what the heck happens between Walt and Vic after Vic gives Walt Mouth-to-Mouth resuscitation in DWC? That first meeting afterwards must have been at least awkward, to say the least. I also want to address that Walt is playing the piano at the end of DWC, but he has not as of end of S3, so…

If you haven't read the books, the series does *not* follow the progress of the books other than having the contemporary western sheriff solving mysteries with most of the main characters. Bits and pieces of the books have been borrowed to create the episodic show (brilliantly, I believe) but only one of the plotlines more or less coincides with that of the books. Of course I don't own anything, lowly fanfic writer, etc etc.

I've written several missing scenes to episodes thus far…but need a name for the grouping. If you think of something catchier than "Missing Scenes," please PM me. Also, please feel free to PM anything you don't want to share in review, such as critique, ideas, comments, welcome! I shoulder grains of salt the size of boulders.

Please note: These are NOT published here in any chronological order!

Missing Scenes – Chapter One

—One End for "Population 25"

(Written after S3E7 "Population 25" and Before S3E8 "Harvest")

(BEFORE "The Hug," just in case you wondered why I took this in another direction.) I couldn't believe any hospital wouldn't observe a patient with a moderate-severe concussion at least overnight. This at least answers the question as to where Branch went to during all the fun at Chance's compound…

I have posted "Epiphanies," a separate look into the heads of Walt and Vic in the hospital examining room, during The Hug, beginning of S3E8. Prior to that, the show flashed back to a brief review of the end of S3E7, "Population 25," but they never really ended it. We just see Vic headed back up the canyon in the Bronco. I also stole a line from the Fort Atlantic song "Up from the Ground" used at the end of S3E7, for Vic feeling compelled to return to Chance's compound…

I know other people have written this sequence. Apologies if I've stepped on anything. I wrote this the day after "Population 25," when it was fresh in my mind. This is one way it might have ended, but not with only 42 minutes…

VIC

The Bronco's headlights sliced into the night, terminating into the compound's giant floods in the distance. A protective vise around her heart would not let her think the worst… As the tires scrunched along and gravel flew at her speed, Vic could see a shadowy tableau in the distance, one figure standing over another in front of Chance's compound.

It was a tall figure, stooping. Her heart gave a little leap, only to see Branch Connelly turn his head toward her in surprise. The leap stilled, but the figure on the ground—it did not move, but it did not have a brown coat, and no hat lay nearby. Her heart leapt a little more. She fought the urge to go over and put a helmet on the man on the ground, dead or not, and kick him around a bit, or maybe more than a bit, but it was a brief inclination. Her spinning head decided in favor of not. The Bronco gave up a small screech and threw up more gravel as she braked to zero, cut the ignition, and she piled out a little wobbly, but mostly intact.

Branch stood, waved and signaled—toward the road. She could hear the faintest shrill sibilance of sirens echoing distantly from down the canyon. He walked back down the road, no doubt to greet backup so the Feds and police together could process the crime scene. A frisson of fear—would Walt be charged with shooting Chance? No. She didn't want to be one, but there were at least three acknowledged victims that she knew of—Sean, herself and the State Trooper in the body bag. No, it wouldn't be Walt. Okay, almost, but not okay. Where was Walt?

"Hey," came a familiar deep sandpapery voice from the dappled shadows beyond the floods.

When she turned her head and squinted past the glare, she could finally see Walt sitting on a railroad tie partially obscured by a stand of trees, head down, his Colt still in his right hand, left arm hanging. She fought the urge to collapse into his arms even as alarms coursed through her. If habitual stoic Walt showed in body language that he was hurt…she jogged around to the hatch and yanked out the small pack containing medical and survival supplies, and trotted back over to him, her head throbbing with every step. He lifted his head, looking more than a little dazed from where he sat staring at her. She wondered if he thought she was a mirage because she had come back. She sure wouldn't have expected her to return after release.

Her head pounded louder than her heart, and she fought the urge to be sick again, for a dark streaky stain marred the outer edge of the dark brown suede of his jacket just below his shoulder.

She inhaled, gathering around her what little bravado she could muster. She defaulted into shock talk to take that look out of his eyes. "Look at you, I fucking leave for barely ten minutes and already you're in a shit-storm of trouble."

He managed a sour smile, but it was better than that dazed look. "It's just a scratch. At least Branch called the Feds for backup; we won't have to stay long once we've briefed them. It's their jurisdiction, after all. I think Branch and I are even, now; he called the Feds when he sneaked in and saw what was going down here. Hopefully the Feds will take over and hunt down the rest of Chance's family." He blinked, peering behind her, as though suddenly aware of her solitary appearance. "Where're Gorski—and Sean? Gorski should have had you and Sean halfway down the canyon toward the hospital by now."

Sean. She had left him alone and unprotected in the middle of a dark road, wedged in the backseat of a crappy survivalist beater car. He was not a cop, had been injured and was in as much hurt as she. He should not be driving any more than she should have, but she had driven back in Walt's unit and had not thought twice about it.

In her mind, it had been simple, she had heard the call: the call was Walt, and she had no choice. In leaving the compound, she had left a piece of herself behind, after Walt had openly risked his life to save hers. In vivid relief she saw him staring at her as she left, when he should have been focused on the crazy guy on the porch with a gun who he had challenged to a duel—a duel of all things! Who did that, nowadays? Well obviously Walt did, enacting a romantic artifact of a bygone era. From what she had seen, Chance Gilbert had embraced the notion of doing the same as a noble way out. It had been obvious to her that Walt understood Chance in ways she did not.

As they left, her fears had tried to break her, had eventually made her cry in front of Gorski, yet despite her fears, she had returned—desperately trying to suppress the worst. She had already lost her rational self once earlier that day thinking Walt was dead; if he had been dead now, she suspected it would have been just too much to bear. She had no idea how she would have functioned in that eventuality. Maybe just locked down, or gone bat-shirt crazy screaming like when the body bag had been thrown down; it was best not to examine that too closely, it would most likely just make her fucking cry again.

"Gorski walked out—just after we reached your truck. He said goodbye. I think he got everything he told me he wanted, for me to hurt as much as he had been, and to lose everything I loved." His eyes met hers briefly, intense, in question. She tried to shutter hers down, hide the trembling of her hands.

"Now, let's see what you've fucking gone and done," she demanded quickly without elaborating further. He quickly holstered his piece, and she carefully helped him shrug his arm out of his jacket. The entire left sleeve of the shirt was saturated with blood, but as she peeled his shirt away, saw her relief that though bleeding, it probably could be repaired with a reasonable number of sutures if she kept pressure on it now. Damn, her hands weren't trembling now, they were shaking. Putting pressure on the wound kept them from continuing to shake.

"You came back for me." He stated the obvious and maybe with some disbelief. It had occurred to her when she first saw him that he might be a little on the shocky side, too. His words only verified that.

She laughed—it bordered on hysteria; she was still trying to master her pounding head and roiling belly which had not improved with the sight or smell of the blood before her. "Well, you should appreciate this: I know I don't read as much as you do, but I think it's a twist on fucking Shakespeare or something—if you get hurt, Walt, I bleed."

With that, she managed to render him speechless. She looked down, just maintaining pressure on his wound, the only thing keeping her hands steady. It might be able to be tied off until medical care arrived. She was suddenly yanked from her concentration through the fog of her head, to hear the wail of sirens much closer, hopefully a massive task force making its laborious way up the canyon, but if possible, it magnified her headache. She finally tied up his wound as best possible with a bandanna in the kit, and turned away, losing anything possibly left in her stomach from the previous bouts in Chance's cellar. He knelt and moved to hold her hair with his good hand.

When she had finished, he issued a gruff ultimatum. "When they get here, you go straight to the hospital."

She came right back at him. "I'll go when you do. This isn't Ten Sleep, Walt. I won't leave you again." In her mind, that was that.

And finally, finally, there was Branch, hoofing it back up the drive, ushering a long procession of flashing lights, agents armed in Kevlar and substantially impressive but unnecessary weaponry. They had missed the fight; this was no Ruby Ridge, just mop-up, investigation, and documentation. Hopefully some of their force had high-tailed it after the motley crew of acolytes who had tortured Sean and her, and worse, had stood by enjoying it earlier that day.

Walt struggled to a stand, and she stood as well. All present representatives of the Absaroka Sheriff's department were currently walking wounded; poor Branch, he was not much better healed than either Walt or she—still not completely recovered in strength and stamina from his gunshot wounds. He should have taken Walt's unit down to the road. He was huffing, his hands on his knees to get his breath back.

A man evidently in charge came up, flashed his badge, and pumped Walt's good hand. "Hendars, FBI. Impressive, Longmire, if you've secured this compound single-handed."

Ever-modest, Walt said, "I had some help, but his people escaped." It did not escape her that his help securing it was a solitary loose-cannon stalker, and that he said nothing about fighting a duel at great personal cost to free his undersheriff and her husband.

"On our way up, we intercepted about twenty coming down the mountain, and found a man identifying himself as your deputy's husband —seemed to be in shock, and in rough shape."

"So is my deputy, maybe someone could look at her—" she caught him with a fierce eye "—um, at both of us, in a bit," he quickly amended. "Let me brief you on the situation."

The scene became full of lights of all sorts, men and women moving in small groups, even as Walt gave Hendars a surprisingly complete precis of the situation. At least as far as she could follow it; she suddenly felt light-headed and sat down again abruptly, even while Walt was gesturing to Agent Hendars with his good arm. She caught the words census agent in the freezer—so as well as the H.P. trooper in the body bag? Definitely Federal jurisdiction, then.

Walt suddenly looked as tired and hurting as she felt, and as though he should sit, too. The teams moved off to investigate. He still had not said anything personal to her, but turned back to where she sat, trying not to huddle miserably in the wake of martial superiority and manpower fanning through the compound.

"I won't leave you either, Vic," he said in that soft gravel voice.

She opened her mouth, but there was no more time for words. Another Fed, who looked like another in-charge guy came up and took Walt away, no doubt for a more comprehensive statement.

One of the ambulances finally sped off with a gaggle of officers in it—taking the high value survivalist for medical attention or the morgue; she did not much care which. She was pretty sure he would haunt her nightmares for months or even years. She could see Walt over at another ambulance, getting a female EMT having a more professional look at her improvised pad. She could tell he was not as unaffected as he appeared. Maybe they could both visit the same therapist, or both attend the same appointments. No, probably not. She would not wish either her or Walt's nightmares on an innocent therapist, much less an ambush from both officers at the same time.

After what seemed like a long while, Walt's boots came crunching along the gravel and he crouched beside her, the female medic who had attended him standing a respectful dozen feet away.

"This is Emily. She's an EMT, wants to ask you a few questions, if you feel up to it. Are you ready to get going? They'll come find us at the hospital when they need us."

"Us." She said it emphatically.

He nodded, placing his large hand over her knee and briefly patting it, before releasing her. "It'll be all right now, Vic. I'm going to let Branch take lead for now, until you and I are back up to it. Let's get out of here."

"No ambulance?" she pleaded.

He hesitated. "Neither of us should drive."

He was right. He gave her a searching look, before asking softly, "How about I ride in it with you?" His face transformed with a rare boyish grin. "I can be your bodyguard and protect you from the mean old EMTs and their needles."

"Fuck that," she said, and stood up gingerly.

It was a long ride, and they made her lie down, but he did keep the needles away and, to her great surprise, held her hand the whole way into town. She closed her eyes, concentrated on not throwing up again, and with his large, rough hand relentlessly wrapped around hers, she remained reassured that he was really, really still alive. It kept back the visions of the body bag hurtling down toward her and Sean…

She must have zoned out, because she began having something colorful and bizarre, sort-of dreams. I'm all he has, sometimes you find out you married the wrong person, echoed in her head, along with the satisfying crunch of hitting Towson after admitting he was going to let Walt freeze, and the endorphin-high of the frantic run to stop Eli from murdering Walt…It had all been there, right in front of her face. Walt. It was Walt then and Walt now, but what about the future?

She did not insist he stay in her room. She did not ask. Dr. Weston himself came into the room they had assigned to her and sutured the injured sheriff, because Walt adamantly refused to leave her alone to go to an exam room. He simply told the orderly they didn't need a separate room for him, and that he would stay planted in the recliner. He also dutifully promised to remain quiet. That was more than they usually got from him during a hospitalization. Actually, staying was more than they usually got from him.

"Maybe, just for tonight," she finally relented, because she was hurting and tired and really did not want to be alone, although she fought the urge to hang on him any more than she had already. Even so, Sean might be by any moment, and the Great Gossips of Durant were probably already broadcasting that the sheriff was staying in the same room as the deputy. It was inevitable.

"I saw Sean," he said cautiously, obviously edging back into civilization mode, and almost eerily like he was reading her thoughts.

"Good," she said, but not relieved, just guilty. "Did he make it back okay?"

"One of the ambulances stopped on the way up and brought him back. Hendars said he was still in the back seat of that Granada when they found him."

Her guilt magnified. She had probably compounded his shock by going back, leaving him alone, and even more than that, why she had gone. "Did he say anything?" He had not tried to contact her…

"Sean said, 'stay with her, she's had a rough time.'"

She closed her eyes in relief. If Sean had given permission…

His hand squeezed hers when her eyes closed. "You shouldn't sleep, Vic, but I'll be here. We can talk if you want."

What a Longmire Concession, to actually offer to talk! He looked adorably out of place in a hospital gown top open down the back and tied at the neck, and jeans and boots. His shirt had been unsalvageable. His arm was in a sling, and he looked vague, haunted, and in some pain. She suspected if she weren't there, he would be at the cabin slugging down a Rainier on top of pain meds, and possibly even sleeping.

"So did Chance kill your wife? Or Miller Beck?" she asked, great small talk, she thought. Talking shop. Not, 'Do you love me, too?' but, 'Did the survivalist break that case?'

"He said not," and shook his head slowly as though to clear it. "I think I believe him."

She didn't say anything.

"We each thought the other would be dead, so there was no reason for him to lie."

She winced at the word 'dead.' Her head was so fuzzy—she couldn't think —"Well, if he didn't, who did?"

That was the question, wasn't it?

"I wish…you were over here," she said plaintively. They wouldn't give her the good stuff until they had observed her longer, and she hurt.

He hesitated at the blatant words. "I do too, but we're in a semi-public place, you're married and I really don't want to do that to Sean…"

She finished, "on top of everything else I did."

His eyebrows rose. "What did you do?"

"On top of going bat-shit over the body bag with the HP trooper in it, you mean? I thought it was you."

"Oh."

"On top of leaving him alone and unprotected in that decrepit car after Gorski abandoned us and…

"And…?"

"…On top of abandoning him to come back to you?"

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

There was a silence. She attempted to fill it. Longmire conversations only went so far, after all.

"So when your arm is better, you heading down to Denver to investigate the Darius connection?"

"Yep."

"I want to go, too, Walt." She chanced a look at him. He looked grim.

"You almost got killed involved in this case already Vic. Let me handle it."

"I don't want to be alone again for a long time, Walt, especially if Seaon goes out of town again. Please."

"We'll see." She half-smiled, kind of hazy inside. That had been one of her ploys when she was growing up, when her mother wouldn't give her permission for something immediately. With her mother, with sufficient wheedling, 'we'll see' usually became 'yes.' However, his comment, although not an affirmative, was at least better than Omar's translation of a 'Longmire yes' which broken down translated as: 'no comment.'

Walt managed to nudge the recliner closer to her bed, and once more took her hand in his. With that, she gave a little sigh and was content despite the pain. Although their conversation was sporadic, it reminded her of the time he had been in the hospital unconscious after his pursuit of the convicts up the mountain behind Ten Sleep.

Ruby brought a bunch of post-its and flowers to the hospital. With Ruby's help, she was able to delegate most of the post-its to the Ferg, a few to Branch, and deflect most of them from Walt. She was afraid to ask where he had gone off to that morning after Ruby spelled him. Ruby had said nothing when she arrived, his hand still clasped to hers.

He hadn't returned, and his absence was more noticeable as every hour went by. Although they finally said she could sleep, she could not. She just saw Chance's face in her head every time her eyes closed, followed by the plummeting body bag. She cussed at herself for her weakness. Walt would come back.

Branch even showed up later that morning. "Took guts to return to Chance's place," he said, twisting his hat in his hands.

"Took guts for you to stick it out, find him, and call backup. Thanks, Branch. Thanks for getting him some help." She did not elaborate which him. She also did not mention her neighbor's report to Ruby that Branch had been seen snooping at her house.

Branch shuffled awkwardly under the praise. "Anytime."

Cady showed up next, one of what in her hurt was beginning to feel like an endless stream and the fog and exhaustion setting in told her to quit the chat. Soon.

"Branch told me what you did for dad, Vic."

What had she done? What did they think she had done? How much did Branch know? All she had done was drive back to get him—or retrieve his body. That was all.

Cady went on, "Going back for him." She paused. "And I saw Dad holding your hand in here last night." Accusation or acceptance? Not sure, yet, and the fog wouldn't let her make that determination, but there was no question of which 'him.' Well, at least that was more to the point!

"Oh, that."

"Yes, that."

"I didn't want to be alone. He was kind about it."

Cady nodded, all sympathy, but she could feel the underlying current, which was Cady broadcasting a fervent plea, 'don't hurt him.' When had she turned into a mind-reader? Was that a side-effect of concussion she had never heard of, before? She hoped she could accommodate Cady's request.

Henry called her on the hospital phone, which made her grimace. Her own phone was presumably lost somewhere in Chance's compound, or possibly evidence with the Feds, and with the ankle bracelet, Henry couldn't very well travel to the hospital. He was, though, surprisingly informative.

"Walt is the proverbial bear with the sore head—or arm —today. Experiences like that tend to linger in the back of your mind, and you and Walt are probably too close to it to talk it out together, yet. If you ever need to talk, Vic, Cady seems to think I am an adequate pair of ears."

She smiled into the hospital phone and thanked him. She meant it. Walt had told her once that Henry had more combat history and endured more PTSD than he ever had as an M.P. investigator.

The only two who did not visit her during the day were Walt and Sean. She had found out Sean had been treated and released. She wasn't surprised he didn't answer his cell, because of course it was presumably with hers back at the compound or somewhere in an evidence bag.

And, of absent visitors, well, of course Gorski was least prominent, but he certainly filled out her triumvirate of men–all three currently ghosts-of her past, present and possible might-be guys.

Sean showed up about 7 pm. He looked terrible. He should have stayed a ghost.

"How do you feel?" he asked her. She had not asked him.

"Better," she answered, truthful about her physical condition, but she would not admit the 'terrible or worse' feelings about what she had done to him.

"I went straight to the main office in Sheridan, today," he said. "I requested and accepted a transfer and promotion to Australia, and brought back some papers to sign. You might want to have an attorney look at them."

That didn't make sense, but frowning made her head ache. "Why would I need to sign Newett papers?"

"My friend in legal drew them up. Divorce. It's a simple split. I already arranged to have my stuff in a storage locker here in Durant. Half of my 401k and you give me half of yours. I think you net about 30 grand. It's quick and we're out."

"Divorce." It seemed too quick, too final to be real, when the day before, neither of them thought they would even be alive to tell about it.

"After that Arizona photo and how you've acted the last couple of days, you dispute my reason for it?"

It must have been the shock. It must have been the truth. She pressed her lips together and stared at him. Walt had used the same technique on her a time or two.

"That's if you want out, I'm giving it to you. If not, we leave for Australia on Friday."

Friday! What an ultimatum! But Saturday she had an appointment with Henry to learn to sit a western saddle... Walt had foisted her onto his friend, saying Henry was the better rider and teacher. She did not understand why; Walt was infinitely patient with animals and children...and witnesses, and usually with suspects. But—to leave the country—the department—and Walt…

"Oh."

Sean nodded, all relief that his mission for the day was complete. "It's in your court now,Victoria. I'm going home to sleep. Oh, I got a new cell phone. Same number. I didn't buy you one. Thought maybe the department could buy you your next one; they certainly get enough use out of yours."

"Oh."

And then he was gone. Walt must have been watching for him to leave, because he filled her doorway about two minutes later.

"Hey," he said gruffly.

"Hey, yourself," she said. He didn't look as bad as he might, but he did look exhausted. He had obviously taken a shower and was wearing clean clothes and a different jacket. No doubt the other was over at the tack shop being stitched. She wondered idly how he'd handled covering the wound while showering. Thoughts about him showering brought other thoughts she should not yet be thinking.

"Getting it cleaned as well as mended?" she asked, nodding at the less distinctive, lighter-weight-model jacket. The old one didn't look good with blood on it. She had occasion to know.

"Yep, cleaned and it will be good as new after they sew up the slit in the sleeve," he acknowledged with a rueful grin. "How was your day?"

Her day.

"Ruby, Branch, Cady, Sean. Henry called."

"I saw Sean leaving. Thought it was the better part of valor, etc., not to come in just then."

She nudged the envelope to him. "He's leaving Friday for Australia, and," she took a heavy breath and lifted the manila envelope, "I think I need an attorney to review this. Does Cady do that?"

He eyed it as though it was a snake. "He's leaving for Australia?" he repeated, and then, "Do what?"

"Look at divorce settlements?" She paused, trying to give him a minute to catch up. "I thought she might have, before." At his presumably stunned silence, she went on awkwardly, "Or just for a recommendation, you know, a name of someone who could look at them. I don't want to make her uncomfortable."

Another beat.

"Did you mean it?" he finally asked.

"Mean…what?"

"That – that you bleed if I'm hurt."

"Oh, that. Yeah, I stole it, though. I read it somewhere. It just said it all."

"I don't deserve you, Vic. You could have anyone…"

"Christ, Walt, I had Gorski and I've had Sean, and look at what a muck I made of it all! "

"I don't want to be another mistake, Vic, if you're getting a divorce, I just want to take our time and find out if there is an us."

He wasn't dealing in small change; that threw her. Most men would be delighted to have a non-committed relationship. Most men were not Walt.

She finally said, "I want to find out, too," and tentatively ventured at his continued silence, "So, I never knew, what happened to…Chance?" She could barely whisper the name. She saw him notice that. And so much for small talk, back to shop talk to keep the conversation going.

"He didn't make it. There's an ongoing investigation, but I should be clear in it. All the charges against the family will come later."

She merely nodded, but noticed him favoring his arm.

"How's it doing?"

"It's all right. It's gonna be okay."

"Walt, you fought a fucking duel for me. You got hurt. You're not supposed to be okay."

He looked almost sheepish.

"I thought Gorski had taken you at first, and saw red. Then Gorski approached me, and from where you had crashed, the prospect of Chance taking you became all too real. Gorski was the lesser of two evils. Gorski did not have a small army of disciples behind him."

"In the future, it would be fucking helpful to jot down the addresses of your mortal enemies corresponding to my vacation itineraries," she joked, but winced as her head hurt from the pathetic attempt at humor.

He hesitated. "They'll probably let you out tomorrow."

She nodded. "I hope so, but I don't want to go to—my old place."

"You could probably stay with Cady a few nights until Sean leaves…"

She gave him a look, the look. Her mother called her The Terror for it. Most men quailed under it. He merely smiled at her, although it was only a half-smile, and tense with exhaustion.

"Not until you make your decision final and everything is signed up all tight, Vic. I won't poach. No room 32s in Durant."

"The only man in the country…" she groaned.

"I'm not Gorski or Sean."

All she could think was, no, thank God!—and because of that, he would be well worth the wait.

WALT—Fragment of the Same Scene

He knew from personal triage he wasn't hurt bad, but he knew sometimes wounded animals were the most dangerous, and Chance Gilbert was among the most dangerous of animals—like the short story The Most Dangerous Game he had long ago read in school. He carefully kicked Chance's gun away with his toe, staying well-away in the event Chance was faking it, but he unfortunately recognized all-too-well the signs of a few agonizing last breaths; he could do nothing for him. Still, he was loathe to holster his weapon on the off-chance Chance might have left a compadre or two behind to finish off a pesky sheriff, to carve another notch to his government war lance, in addition to the highway patrol trooper and census agent. When had he become so paranoid? Over 20-plus years staying alive, that's when.

Branch came walking up the drive, his arrogance in check for once.

"Saw the cars take off!" he shouted. "Called the Feds for backup. Is Vic a hostage in one?"

Normally, this would irritate him, but in this case, the initiative was appropriate, it was not Absaroka jurisdiction, after all, more state and Federal. He nodded and waved with his good arm, still clutching his weapon. "I sent Vic out with Sean and Gorski."

"Gorski. Now there's a story."

"For another night. The Feds can process this crime scene. Hopefully Ferg and Ruby are holding the fort?"

"As far as I know. I came looking for you and Vic."

Branch apparently finally noticed Chance and went over, presumably to see if he could render aid. Walt hoped it was already too late, even as his body decided it was time to sit. Fast.

He had just gotten marginally comfortable on a log when he heard the roar of a familiar engine and a cloud of choking dust rose in the night air around his very own truck as it spun to a stop. He blinked, thinking it was a cyclonic apparition, when Vic, his appropriately dubbed "Terror," staggered a little, dropped to the ground and took in the situation, Branch stooping over Chance. In her civilian clothes and despite her condition, she was a sight for sore eyes. He thought maybe she didn't see him, so he called out a soft "Hey," so as not to startle her.

When he saw her eyes, he was lost. Lost. They were the eyes of concern—of love. Maybe at the moment, the concern overrode the love, but he would swear it was there. She had come back, and he was astonished. Momentarily speechless, although for him, that condition was not unique.

"Vic," was all he managed, but he wasn't sure she heard him.

"Look at you, I fucking leave for barely ten minutes and you're already in a shit-storm of trouble."

He managed a weak grin. It was good to be inside the eye of Hurricane Vic. Her presence enveloped him with ferocity. Tenacity. They would get through this—together.

Okay, so I started the same scene from Walt's POV. I just thought it would put it in another perspective, but this is all that trickled out… pout