Disclaimer: Nope, the characters aren't mine. But the story is. And this isn't for profit, and no copyright infringement is intended... and... smoking has been known to be hazardous to your health. Oh wait... wrong disclaimer.
Note: Okay, okay, don't shoot! I posted this, and I liked what I posted yes, but I made it so much better now. So reposted is a different ending, only a little different, don't worry. But what was wrong with this story has now been fixed. And you guys are bad for my ego, telling me that the story is good and all makes her do a happy dance. Thanks!
Senseless
By Shadowfax
She found it peculiar that she couldn't consciously feel anything as her back unceremoniously hit the cool, unforgiving hardwood with a dull thud. No, she felt not a thing. The floor; she was suddenly on the floor. Was it oak maybe? Possibly walnut... who really knew... but she made a semi-conscious mental note to look that one up later, otherwise it would bother her until the day she died.
Strange, she thought, today might just be that day.
She had heard once, that when someone loses use one of their five senses, the remaining four become heightened somehow. Granted, a gradual heightening was implied, over time, pertaining to becoming blind or deaf. However as she lay there, staring into the face of a stranger and trying to grasp exactly what had happened, she thought that possibly there is an immediate awareness that comes with losing a sense.
As if one could even lose the ability to feel.
Take this taste in the back of her throat as argument number one. She had suddenly become aware of a sickeningly bitter taste—metallic even. If she didn't know better, she would have considered that it was blood. That life sustaining substance partially made up of red blood cells, which contain hemoglobin, which in turn contains iron, a metal. Wait... maybe she didn't know better.
Funny, the things one thinks as life slowly slips away.
She never did see her childhood flash before her, as people claim happens in a situation such as this. No, instead she saw dark, almost completely black eyes; pupils so large they appeared to be eating the irises for lunch.
Odd, considering how exceedingly bright the room seemed.
She also made out a crooked, quite prominent nose, and ears that stuck out just so. Dark hair poking out from underneath a baseball cap, a Yankees fan... in Boston no less... she didn't quite know what to make of that, other than to add it to her list of reasons to hate the Yankees. All in all, the image presented was the archetype of an average Joe.
She strained, squinting for a better look, but her eyes slowly failed her. One blink and he was gone. She knew a visual would be golden in arresting the creep, but she just couldn't keep her eyes open long enough.
All that remained was the distinct odor of... cut flowers. She smelled roses. No, carnations maybe, as if fresh flowers had distinctly different odors. If they did, she wasn't wise to it. Yet another thing she promised herself to figure out later, if later ever came.
The sound of her recently issued two-way radio brought her back into the reality of the situation. She had hated the idea of carrying around these new-fangled electronic devices to crime scenes, but Garret has insisted that they were for the best. Giving his spiel about remaining in contact with the responding officers, yada yada, and how they should have been carrying them around for years now. They were supposed to be for safety... and she remembered him saying something about not becoming a statistic.
What a wonderful, senseless twist of irony.
She could hear Woody's voice… how strangely calm he seemed. Didn't he know she was up here, lying on this cold floor with an inanimate object wedged forcefully into her stomach? Her face contorted, in what would have been described as utter agony, if that were the case.
No, he was totally unaware of the events that had recently transpired, for Jordan had made not a sound. Fitting, it seemed. As if some things never really change.
"What the hell are you doing up there Cavanaugh? Powder your nose on your own time. " He chided, figuring if anything that'd elicit some sort of response. He turned back to another officer, asking if he was certain these things were on the same frequency.
She heard it all, and made a half-hearted mental note to powder him one later, but still didn't respond—it wasn't that Jordan didn't try, she just couldn't find the radio, and she soon realized that moving while a knife was wedged into layers of her abdominal tissue was not as easy as she would have hoped.
Yet strangely still, she felt no pain. Senseless, as it were.
"Jordan look, we've stumbled upon something here. You'd know what we're looking at... stop fooling around and just answer me."
When she still didn't say a word, Woody did the only thing he really knew how to do when it came to Jordan, or any Cavanaugh for that matter. He panicked.
In fact, all hell broke loose. She faintly heard him making a ruckus as he rapidly climbed the flight of stairs, likely taking them two, even three at a time, leaving a few of the other officers in the dust. But her interest wasn't on the man calling out her name for very long. No, her attention became focused on the source of what should have been unbearable pain.
Strange, she thought, that it wasn't... yet.
Her hand instinctively found the hilt of the knife, much to her amazement... for her eyes had long since lost the strength to remain open. Upon sheer will, she tried in vain to pull the offensive object from her gut. However, the weapon, well soaked with a warm, slightly viscous liquid, proved to be more obstinate than she, if such a thing were possible. The knife wasn't going to budge; either that or her fingers wouldn't work. She assumed the latter was the case.
As an entourage of police, headed by none other than Woody himself, reached her tragic site, she began to succumb to a certain sense of peace—as if she could simply fall asleep and all the worries of the world would fall with her, to the depths of the earth and beyond, never to be seen or heard from again. She even managed a slight smile as she recognized the distinct worried, even angrily distraught voice of her detective friend booming in baritone while he chewed out someone...anyone he could get within ten feet of. If they were smart they'd stay away—far, far away. He seems like a kitten when you first meet him, naïve and sweet, but there's a tiger within that six-foot-something frame of a man that a few rough years on the Boston force had unleashed. "You assholes assured me that this scene was secure! Were you even looking?!? Do I have to clear every damn room myself?!? Hell if I ever trust you morons ever again!"
She knew that wasn't all of it, in fact so much more had happened... but her attention quickly waned, shifting to someone's whispers of "Ms Cavanaugh, er... doctor, can you hear me?" while her pulse was taken and her breathing checked.
"EMS is on their way, is-is-is she gonna make it?" the now less explosive, yet still severely unsettled Woody reported, almost afraid to get too close. She couldn't understand why he was so unnerved while she herself had never felt so relaxed.
Granted, from the detective's point of view, things weren't so detached, or serene. A nervous thought that plagued the back of his mind day in and day out immediately became a frontrunner when she failed to answer that page. Why she had gone off exploring alone in the first place was beyond him. But then again, he knew that she liked to work a scene in her own mind, playing it out like the killer had. She often started wherever impulse took her, and even though she stood by her mantra of the answers are always in the body, she knew that context was often just as helpful, if not more so sometimes.
She had said once that it brings a different perspective to things.
Perspective is what triggered her to the possibility that they were dealing with a serial murderer. Perspective was what enabled her to link six cold cases over so many months. Perspective is what brought them here, tracking the son of a bitch responsible. Perspective is what made her check the bedroom, while he surveyed the primary scene... the one with the red 'paint' on the walls. Perspective got her a knife in her gut.
Damn perspective.
His worst nightmare became a reality when he first noticed that color—the tell tale crimson that was painted all over the basement walls, surrounding her. He froze.
In fact, it was another officer who ran to her side first, while Woody felt the urge to lose his lunch. Fighting nausea, he began to yell out incoherently at first, then escalating to hollering orders left and right. It wasn't until he chewed out a few of the uniformed cops for negligence that his brain really registered... knife, Jordan, blood.
Jordan.
Knife.
Blood.
He stared at it all from a detached distance, noticing how her eyes were closed, her hair spread out above her head, like a halo... how her breathing was so, so shallow... was she going to make it?
"She's holding on, but not for long. She's already losing consciousness," the uniformed officer stated matter-of-factly, trying to maintain a sense of purpose in checking vital signs and putting pressure on her stomach, but quickly losing his own composure.
It wasn't until the EMS reached the room that Woody managed to edge closer and whisper, taking one of her blood-soaked hands in his, "Please Jordan, please. You can't give up on me. Not yet."
When the medic basically shoved him out of the way, it was all he could do to step back and watch in horror, as if it were all some scene from a bad movie. His dazed mind couldn't keep up with anything they were saying, or what her chances were, his only real memory from the exchange was realizing she wasn't unconscious as they eased her onto a gurney.
A surprised yelp, followed by a series of low pleadings ensued; it was simultaneously utter heart-wrenching agony and music to Woody's ears. She was in so much pain, but she wasn't dead.
She wasn't dead.
Though Jordan herself considered that life was so much better when she couldn't feel. This, whatever she had been jarred back into against her will, was just so... senseless.
He peered into the bleak, uninviting hospital room before softly padding to her side. She'd been in and out of varying states of consciousness since the surgery, but everything so far indicated that she'd pull through. Visitor after visitor for the past few days had seemed to only tire her some, and Garret considered briefly that it would be better for her if he waited until later to be nothing more than a pest. After all, she appeared to finally be sleeping somewhat restfully. But that thought was cut short.
"Daddy?" she whispered, and it was all he could do to smile sadly. She often called out to her father, or to him, in her semi-conscious states. But strangely, even more so, she asked for Woody... or simply asked if he was okay. It didn't make much sense, and Garret found it odd that he hadn't seen the detective at all since he had heard that she'd been stabbed.
He brushed it off, figuring that Hoyt was busy catching the person responsible, and felt slightly envious of him for it.
"No, Jor. It's Gar. I still can't find your father, but once I do, I'm sure he'll come back as fast as wings can carry him."
"Wo-woody, there, there was blood. Is he okay?" she asked, slightly panicked.
"To the best of my knowledge, he's fine too. Don't worry Jordan. He isn't hurt."
"Good," she whispered before coming to a bit more, "I thought... God, if I could remember what happened; maybe I wouldn't be making a fool of myself every time I wake up."
"It's okay Jordan, you're okay. That's all that matters."
"Yeah, actually, I am feeling better. This little cocktail they got me on does wonders," she smirked, attempting to joke with him a bit. "I bet the morgue's not the same place without me, eh?"
"Lord, Jordan, don't even kid about that. We're all walking around as if..."
"You can say it Gar. As if... someone died."
"It's worse than that." He replied honestly, "It's like... there's the dead. And then there's the living dead. The only difference is that we're still vertical."
"Good to know I'm loved." She smiled openly, though the exhaustion behind her veil of good humor didn't go unnoticed.
"Yeah, you sure are. But right now, don't be worrying about work. You, you need to get some rest and get back on your feet, okay?"
She sighed, reaching for his hand. "You'll stay, until I fall asleep, right?"
He smiled, content to be her safeguard, as she quickly drifted back into that pre-sleep state of blissful peace. He wished for a moment that he could make everything in her life right. He wished he could find her father, that her mother hadn't been murdered, that she hadn't fallen victim to years of uncertainty and a never-ending search for some sort of resolution over what had happened one September day, twenty some odd years ago.
He wished that she hadn't been skewered.
But then, he considered, what other possible roads may she have taken? Would she have become that rogue heart surgeon only to turn medical examiner by chance? Would she have been driven to become a doctor at all?
Would he ever have hired her, let alone happened to meet her in the first place?
As much as she could get on his nerves, and as much as never meeting her to begin with sounded like a good thing at times, he couldn't help but admit that she was right. She was a constant thorn in his side, and he loved her that much more for it.
He moved to gently place a chaste kiss upon her forehead, and as he did so, he noticed something was wrong... so gravely wrong.
She was burning up.
"Jordan, JORDAN, wake up!" he cried out, trying to get her back. It had all happened so fast, in front of his eyes... and yet he'd been powerless to stop it.
A simple buzz of the call button set a swarm of action into motion. They packed her with chilled blankets, pushed meds into her veins and pulled out blood before bullying him out of the room, sending him back down a well-worn path to the waiting area.
He spent the rest of the afternoon trying to find answers. All they'd tell a non-relative was that she'd been taken back into surgery—that a virulent strain of Staphylococcus had evaded the heavy antibiotics she had been receiving, and began to wreak havoc on what little strength she had left to fight it. Invading her bloodstream from the point of infection, the tiny microbes could easily hitchhike along her platelets and blood cells, traversing the many thoroughfares that make up the circulatory system.
The nature of human vasculature can be likened to the old saying, "All roads lead to Rome." From the major routes such as the aorta to the tiniest capillary, at one point in time on its circular journey, every blood cell passes through the main pump—where the systemic and pulmonary circuits join. If this microscopic demon, this Staph bacteria, thought such a place made a pristine harbor and jumped ship into the musculature, or the valves of Rome itself... well, Garret didn't even want to think of what could happen.
He took a deep breath, trying to remain optimistic. They had caught the infection early, though was it early enough? Hell. Who was he trying to kid... his glass was always half empty.
His head bowed as he walked back into the waiting area, futilely avoiding the unasked questions of those who lay in wait along with him.
"It's..."
"You find him yet?" Macy inquired in a desperate tone, impatiently awaiting answers from the detective who he had finally found at his desk, meticulously piecing together a small model airplane.
Ever since that case he had worked alongside the feds, the bombing of that building and the innocent kid who was just trying to remain in good standing with the country, Woody had become slightly obsessed with putting together models of almost anything—cars, ships, but the airplanes were the most engaging. And not the ones you could haphazardly slap together with some Elmer's in two minutes and boom; suddenly you have a finished product.
No, he preferred the ones that took days, even weeks, and didn't necessarily come with instructions, nor all the parts needed to put it together.
Why toy planes, of all things?
It seemed to him, that anything worth building took time, patience, care... effort. Even if he didn't overtly realize it, his subconscious saw something in these models—a parallel to life, if you will. And while he had other hobbies, things that took his mind off the job, none were as fulfilling as intricately piecing together parts of wood and fabric... as strange as that may sound. Sure, he loved collecting the robots too, but the possibility that he could ruin them suppressed any boyish curiosity to take them apart and expose their secret inner-workings. Hell, if it wasn't broken, it seemed pointless to fix.
But something he could construct from the ground up, with his own hands... that became so much more appealing somehow.
As if all the care he took in gaining people's trust—personally or professionally—could be likened to the methodical piecing together of a toy plane. And one mustn't take for granted the added benefit of allowing yourself to concentrate on something so seemingly insignificant. It serves to let you forget, if only for a moment, that the world is often a senseless place, full of senseless occurrences.
"Damn it." Woody mumbled, as a portion of the undercarriage of his craft splintered slightly under the added weight from the rest of the fuselage. It was a tiny biplane, Garret noted, most likely from the WWII era. The wings were hinged, strangely enough, and it appeared as though they could fold back, much like a bird's wings when not in flight. The framework was slightly off for some reason, and the entire plane seemed to favor the left side. After a few moments of silent wonderment, Macy grunted loudly, causing the detective to jump out of his chair.
"D-D-Doc, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were here... but... uhm... if you wanted information... my, my, my supervisor t-took me off... the case. Told me to, to, to take a few weeks... all but suspended me really. I, I, I g-guess I'm n-not taking this w-well." He responded slowly, regressing back into his childhood state of stuttering. Without another word, he sat back down, picking up his aircraft and shaking his head.
"She's broken," he murmured helplessly, and Garret knew he wasn't simply referring to the model in his hands.
He was having trouble coping, it was obvious; so was the rest of the morgue staff, himself included. But Woody had been there. He had witnessed Jordan break down before, sure, but this was on a whole new level. This one he could have prevented... and now his heart couldn't force his feet to take him back to face that indescribable pain again.
"Try reinforcing the right side more, under there," Garret pointed out the weakness in a portion of the jointed framework, "to make sure she can distribute the weight more evenly when the wings are folded. I think that's her problem." He paused, allowing Woody to inspect the flaw before continuing, "But she's not hopelessly broken, she's still fighting for a chance. You just have to know how to give it to her. Here, let me help."
It took several minutes, and some well placed glued reinforcements, but working together they managed to brace the undercarriage. Woody folded the wings back as a test, and sure enough, she had been saved.
"Well hello there Miss Tiger Moth," he whispered, pleased in the simplicity of the situation before adding in his appreciation for the guidance. Yet as he looked back up at Dr. Macy, a question remained, written so overtly across his face. It was the same question he'd seen before, numerous times, however Woody's expression seemed even more pained somehow—as if those blue eyes had faded to a solemn grey.
"It's her heart Woody, there's something wrong with her heart."
It didn't make any sense... damn it, she was stabbed. What the hell did her heart have to do with it?
Endocarditis.
She had survived the next-to-impossible, and walked out of that hospital (she not so politely refused the damn wheelchair, even though her balance was slightly off and her legs felt like gelatin) with her head held that much higher for it.
Only a week ago she'd still been in a constant fevered state that left her weaker than any doctor thought possible. It didn't make sense medically. With a fever that high and a RBC count that low, she should have been in a coma.
But Jordan had refused to quit. Not when the alternative was succumbing to death at the hands of another.
Call it obstinacy, call it bull-headedness, call it whatever you will.
But for her, it had been something to hold onto. Well that, and the strange memory of something Woody had said the last time she'd seen him. He had pleaded with her not to give up on him, and for some reason, that was enough to keep her heart beating despite an alien invasion.
As far as her heart was concerned, she had survived the second coming.
The antibiotics she was still taking made her nauseous and the drugs to help her through that made her shake uncontrollably. Either that or it was the chills, she couldn't tell. She'd been fighting hot and cold spells for longer than she could remember clearly; at this point she couldn't really discern which was which, let alone up from down.
All she knew was that she was going home. Well, save for one slight detour.
Macy understood. He didn't like the idea that she wasn't going to get right into her own bed and sleep until next month, but he understood that arguing would have been fruitless. He helped her out of the passenger door, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and told her to call him once she made it home—the good ol' big brother type that he was.
She waited for him to get back into the car before heading towards the building, wondering how she was supposed to approach the man four flights up the stairs that had basically deserted her when she needed him most—something he had promised he'd never do. And as if on cue, she heard Macy yell out from behind her, "Go easy on him Jordan, remember what I told you." She still felt every bit of resentment for the situation, but forced herself to allow him to explain his chicken act before jumping down his throat.
And any thoughts of chewing him a new one faded away as he opened the apartment door. It was obvious. He already resented himself enough for the both of them.
He looked at her as if he were face to face with a ghost. And honestly, that's how she appeared. She sported a chalky sort of pallor, and she looked like she'd been to hell and back. She was so tiny... tinier than he remembered. Smaller yes, thinner even, but no less beautiful.
A familiar hand reached across the apartment-hallway barrier, and traced her cheek, her forehead, her chin... as if he was making sure she wasn't simply a figment of his imagination. Her tired eyes quickly lost the will to remain open, but it didn't matter—she was relishing in the fact that being able to feel was actually a blessing. For without the pain, moments like this couldn't be defined as something so sweet.
"You didn't come," she whispered, letting him know that although he was forgiven in her mind, he didn't have to know that just yet. After all, his absence had hurt her more than she thought it could.
"I, I couldn't. And I'm sorry. I. You. Broken." He wasn't making much sense, but it didn't matter, because it wasn't what he said that spoke volumes, it was what he did.
Shamelessly, and without reservation, he began to cry, "I failed you; I failed you in so many ways, when I promised I never would. I'm so, so sorry."
"You didn't fail me Woody, I never asked you to be my vigilante. I asked you to be my friend."
"And I-I-I screwed that up too." He sputtered, before she took him into her arms.
"You're standing here now, aren't you? So don't be getting all guilt-tripy on me. I haven't the patience, nor the energy. In fact, my heart can't take it." She smirked, before closing her eyes again and simply letting him hold her there, in the entryway, for all the world to see.
"Damn it, that isn't funny." He mumbled into her hair as he lightly held her, for fear of bringing on any more pain.
"Yes actually, it is." she chided, though faltering slightly, which served to remind Woody where they were.
Slowly guiding her to his couch, he took great care in propping her up, all the while making idle, senseless chit-chat as he searched for extra blankets and another pillow. As he buzzed around, she took an unusual interest in a toy airplane placed carefully on a stand not two feet in front of her. The small aircraft, handmade out of wood and fabric was indescribably light in her hands. He stopped talking once he realized that she was no longer listening and simply watched her while she inspected the model from all angles, as if in silent admiration of all his hard work.
He placed two steamy cups of some herbal green tea drink that was supposed to have great healing powers upon the coffee table, and she smiled genuinely in appreciation. "It's beautiful Woody, you build it yourself?" she asked, fingering the green fabric stretched tautly over the wings. She had never been one to be interested in his childish toys, but for some reason this one was different. This one... seemed to require sheer perseverance.
"I had a little help, her body didn't want to cooperate with her heart for a while, and I thought she was broken. But, it turns out; she just needed a little brace and a lot of time."
Jordan smirked at his double entendre, and he relished in the lightness of the air around them. He felt at home again, and was almost able to forget how he had failed her so. But all sense of relief left the building when he noticed her face contort into something a bit less playful and a lot more concentrated. Her brow furrowed as she rubbed her fingers across a small label on the side of the plane. It was an insignia from the manufacturer, complete with a description of the aircraft's name and its historical significance.
She didn't hear him say much about the fact that it was a Tiger Moth, used as training aircraft in WWII Sweden. Not that it contributed to the war effort or had much significance to the world as a whole, but he had been attracted to this particular model because she posed a challenge, and rare one at that. No, Jordan didn't hear any of his spiel; she simply sat there, propped up halfway by pillows, in a state of half-disbelief, half-familiarity. As she traced the picture of a single red rose upon the Tiger Moth's label, her mind raced back to something that she was just now putting her finger upon.
"Flowers. I remember smelling flowers. Because, because... I couldn't tell if they were roses or carnations. My sense of smell must be a tad tainted from all the decomposition." She sat more upright a tad too quickly, and winced in the pain brought on by her stitches before falling back against the pillows.
Woody tried to make sense of her revelation, as his gaze bounced from the aircraft, to her, back to the plane, and even to the floor... until his mouth opened wide and gasped in understanding.
Holy shit, he knew who had stabbed her.
There'd been a suspect, overlooked because he had a 'solid' alibi, and seemed nothing more than an average Joe making a living as a florist, selling roses out of his white van... Just because he was kicked off the case didn't mean he wasn't following it.
"Does that mean anything?" she inquired tiredly, noticing his gasp yet being on the brink of exhaustion couldn't do much more about it.
"Yeah, yeah it does," he said breathlessly, and not wanting to get her hopes up, he added, "If you'll excuse me, for just one minute, I'm going to give the captain a call. Stay right there; I'll be right back."
When he returned with an ice-pack in hand to help ease her lingering pain, he noticed one very tired Jordan fast asleep; the very thing that had triggered her memory lying upon her stomach. Funny, in its own senseless round-about way, that model may have just solved as many as seven murders. He eased the Tiger Moth from her grasp, and took one more look at that label that he almost hadn't attached to her when he had finished building it—because it seemed senseless at the time. In hindsight, he was grateful that he had decided to grace her with her name.
And while he pulled up a blanket to gently cover Jordan's shoulders, he considered that maybe things happen for a reason.
Maybe... maybe the world wasn't so senseless after all.
Fin.