DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of the characters on Crossing Jordan or the show itself, unfortunately, but I can't stop ficcing them.

A/N: This was written for a CJ challenge on livejournal. The events in this fic parallel 'There's No Place Like Home 2' and are seen through the eyes of a cast member who I wish had been there. The pairing occurred to me after I accepted this challenge and now I want to write more of it. I don't think anyone has ever written a fic with this pairing before and I hope you enjoy it.

Warning - This fic depicts a male/male relationship. If this sort of thing offends you then please do not read. There is an uncut version of this with lots of smut, which will be posted on adult fanfiction.

Peter awoke with a start just a few minutes after dropping off to sleep, feeling he may already be too late. Calling the reservation's desk for the airline, he crammed clothes into his battered duffel bag. By the time he had given his credit card information to the annoyingly cheerful airline representative on the phone, he had stripped the small room completely, eliminating any evidence of the last year and a half and his time here.

He'd been ready to move on; had only been waiting for a change in the wind, a sign of where to go next. Tonight's dream had decided things for him; this time moving forward would mean going back. Peter left the room the way he'd found it. Its barrenness waiting for the next lost soul struggling find a path back to themselves.

He arrived at San Francisco International with only a few minutes to spare. Hearing the overhead system announce the last boarding call for the 11 P.M. flight to Boston, Peter sprinted down the concourse to the gate. He quickly settled in his seat and fastened the seatbelt. Boston. Home. Him.

Peter knew that he was the reason for the inexorable pull he'd felt on waking. Something had happened and somehow he needed him. It was strange to feel that; he'd never needed anyone for as long as he'd known him. Always strong, yet underneath there had been a need he had never allowed anyone to see. It was a need they shared, the need to be accepted by even one person for whom and what they truly were. Not the public faces, but the hidden man, the one that both had been afraid to show to the rest of the world.

Peter had seen that hidden face, knew the soul-deep doubt the man carried, the pain he endured without flinching. It was a pain Peter understood only too well, the pain of trying to live as only half of what you were, denying a part of your self. That pain had led Peter to a sham marriage and drug addiction. That pain led him to hide the loving soul that lay beneath the cynical facade he showed the world.

For a time Peter had seen that hidden man come out, shown fully to him in intimate loving moments, but glimpses became visible to those they worked with also. Each had commented at one time or another about the change they'd seen in him, Jordan had speculated aloud that he must be 'getting some'. Peter knew that the change wasn't just about physical satisfaction, but about love.

Love was not a word Peter would have equated with him when they first met, but slowly, over time, Peter began to see the man behind the mask. A man who was capable of loving so intently and so fully that he had freely let Peter go when it became obvious to both of them that he could not fight his demons in Boston. Not only bidding him a loving goodbye, but also using his contacts to make certain that Peter had a very well paying job waiting when he was far enough along in his recovery.

There had been letters to encourage him every day, filled with news of Peter's friends at the morgue. While the letters never declared his love for Peter, it was imbued in each pen stroke. There was never a mention of the future when it came to the two of them, but Peter could sense the hope in what was not said, hope that Peter would return to Boston and the man who wrote.

Now as the plane left the runway, Peter hoped that he was not too late. That the strange warning tingle in his spine wasn't some sort of prescient message of ruin or death. He closed his eyes, but found that the feeling of dread had driven sleep far away. He should be exhausted, unable to stay awake after pulling a double and then running errands all day. Except for the forty minutes he'd slept while dreaming, he'd been awake for almost thirty hours. He contented himself with some ridiculous novel left by a previous passenger. The plot was something about a failed writer finding himself in a rundown Mexican seaside town minus one kidney and running through filthy water being chased by bad guys, who wanted to steal the other one.

Finally, the flight attendant announced that they would be landing in twenty minutes. Peter slipped the book into his carryon and sat waiting to be allowed off the plane, once again feeling the full strength of the urgency that had never really left him, only abated somewhat during the cross-country flight.

He was on his feet the moment the attendant opened the door to the jet way. He hurried through Logan, glad he traveled so lightly, unlike his fellow passengers who were waiting for their bags. He made a beeline for the cabstand and gave the driver the address, settling back for the ride through the TWT and into South Boston.

Arriving at the apartment building, he asked the driver to wait while he walked in and check the post boxes; the name was still there. He paid the fare and went back in to the elevator. On the slow ascent, he wondered what he'd find. At the door, he lifted his hand and hesitated for a brief moment to send up a prayer to whatever higher power there might be that he was wrong and the man on the other side of the door didn't need him.

He knocked softly enough that the sleeping neighbors would not have their predawn rest disturbed, knowing that the man inside would hear even though he might be sound asleep himself. The brief lapse between his knock and the sound of someone on the other side of the door banished any thought that he'd awakened the occupant. The quick darkening, then lightening at the peephole was followed by the sound of the locks being released and the door opened quickly. The man on the other side pulled him into a hard almost desperate embrace, enfolding him in strong arms and sending a thrill through him and he was assailed by a familiar scent, the subtle smell of cigars, good scotch and that warm earthy scent he'd awakened to so many mornings.

"Peter" His voice was filled with surprise and a hint of relief. Before he could respond, he was pulled into a passionate kiss that sent a shaft of electricity through him, as he returned the caress.

Finally, breathless, Peter broke the kiss and pulled back slightly, feeling the other man's arms tighten as though he feared Peter would slip away. Looking into brown eyes that had haunted his dreams, Peter spoke, finally seeing the man in front of him. "Jesus, Garret, you look like shit."

A/N- Well what do you think?