As always, I'll start with a...

Disclaimer: I do not own Crossing Jordan.

Note: This one wasn't planned. It's funny, really - I've got two stories in the works (with me, that means that I've got the outlines :)), but when I started writing, this appeared on the screen. :)) So, just for the record, the other two stories are Ordinary People (set between Crash and The Flowers of Evil) and Out of Sync (an AU starting from the first scene of Thin Ice).

As always, I hope you'll enjoy and feel free to leave a review on your way out. :)

Oh, had she put a dollar aside each time she got yet another impolite comment about being a sadist because of cutting dead people for a living, by now she would have been – well, maybe not exactly rich – but able to afford a nice trip to Hawaii or the Bahamas, maybe even the Caribbean. Perhaps lying on the soft sand under a verdant palm tree, in scorching heat and with a strong Bahama Mama in her sun-tanned hand, she would be able to forget everything, to turn over a new leaf, to return to Boston cheerful, if not happy, and strong, stronger than ever. Yesterday she had been considering that option – the possibility of going to some place far, far away, to some place where no pitiful looks would be sent her way, where the sun was shining, the air was warm and the sea blue. She had been considering that option in all seriousness. Of course, to do that she would have to clear her bank account and beg Garret for even more overtime after the vacation. She had been on the very verge of doing so. Then she had spotted the catch – in all those heavenly places, the ocean was so deep you could get lost in it, it was mesmerizing, sometimes its buried rage would come to the surface and it would turn dark and threatening, sometimes it would be warm and welcoming, it would be blue, crystalline blue. The ocean was like his eyes. The Charles was like his eyes. The sky was like his eyes. She had dismissed the idea of a vacation near the ocean. She had stopped jogging near the river. She had begun looking only at the sidewalk when walking a street. She was feeling like a pathetic wuss. No, she knew she was a pathetic wuss. She knew she had to snap out of it, but it was difficult. It was so freakin' difficult. For, whenever she would close her eyes, she would see his. She would feel his hands on her upper arms. She would hear his voice.

"I don't want to push you away any more, Jordan."

That sentence was on a continuous loop in her head. "I don't need help. Especially not from you." and "Screw your pity and get out." and "You whisper something in my ear and it's supposed to change everything? Well, it doesn't." would interfere occasionally.

She knew she had to stop thinking about him. He didn't want her any more. He didn't need her any more. He didn't love her any more. If he ever had. Love can't just disappear, can it? She sort of felt like Scarlett O'Hara. She had told him she loved him (okay, maybe not in those words, but still) and his reaction was "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn." or – in his exact words – "Screw your pity." and all that jazz.

She knew she had to throw him out of her head. She needed to rip him out from her mind and her heart. Of course, it was easier said than done. She didn't know how to do that. Sometimes she suspected she didn't really want to, either. She still hoped. He loved her. He did. She knew it. One of these days, he would come and ask her to forgive him. And she would ask him to forgive her.

"And then what?" she mocked herself. "Then you'll live happily ever after. Yeah, right." She snorted.

She was a fool. He didn't love her. He obviously was able to live without her. She was able to live without him. She was. She really was. But these things take time. Turning Scarlett's (in)famous thought inside out, she said out loud, "I won't think about him tomorrow." Then her eyes fluttered shut and she started warming her frozen heart on the remnants of the fire his love for her had been. As the ice melted, she started to bleed again. Oh God, why did it have to hurt so much? Why had she had to be such an idiot? She should have done something earlier.

As the film continued to unwind on her eyelids, her shaky hand reached for the remote. She turned on her stereo, ready for one more round of songs that don't exactly bring a smile upon your face.

"They were wrong," she mumbled, "I'm actually a masochist."

I hear the ticking of the clock.

I'm lying here, the room's pitch dark.

I wonder where you are tonight,

No answer on the telephone.

And the night goes by so very slow,

I hope that it won't end though...

Usually too schmaltzy for her. But not tonight. If tomorrow wouldn't bring any relief, she would like this night to last forever. She was safe here, even happy in some wicked way, with all those memories. Tomorrow, he could hurt her again. He could use her, lie to her, just like he had about Riggs. Tomorrow, she could see this new him, see this new Woody she didn't like. Now, that was a lie. She liked… She loved him no matter what. But she was afraid of him, of what he could do to himself and to her. He had changed so much. He was more of a stranger to her now than when he had first come from Wisconsin. He was violent. He was desperately seeking revenge. He was insincere. He hadn't called her for over two months. Damn him, if he didn't want her, she didn't want him, either.

Nevertheless, she couldn't hold tears back as Sade was singing about her life, about what her life had become.

You think I'd leave your side, baby,

You know me better than that.

You think I'd leave you down when you're down on your knees.

I wouldn't do that.

I can tell you right when you want to hear…

And if you could see into me…

When you're cold,

I'll be there, hold you tight to me.

Oh yes, she would, she would do that. She would always be by his side. She would help him get through it all. If only he would let her. She would put up with his tantrums if only he would let her in, confide in her; she'd know then that everything would eventually be alright. They would make it together.

When you're on the outside, baby, and you can't get in,

I will show you you're so much better than you know.

When you're lost and you're alone and you can't get back again,

I will find you, darling, and I will bring you home.

He had done that for her so many times. Why wouldn't he let her do that for him now? She couldn't take it any more. This entire situation was driving her insane.

"He has made his decision," she told herself for the umpteenth time. "He has moved on and I should do the same," she concluded as she reached for the remote again.

At the very same moment, her cell phone rang.

Damn her. He couldn't even drink his whiskey without thinking about her. It wasn't only because of her eyes, her enchanting eyes. He thought he knew their every expression. They could so easily turn from playfulness to affection and from affection to anger and then back again. He knew when she was thoughtful. He knew when she was plotting yet another of her hare-brained schemes. He knew when she was enraged by injustice. He remembered her look at the hospital. He had seen that one before – not often, though – and he had dared to think it was more than affection. He had dared to think it was love. But now he knew better. She had never loved him. She had waited for him to be unconscious on a gurney to whisper, stammer actually, a simple: "You are so much to me. I need you to hold me a little tighter." She had pitied him, so she said a few nice words. Of course, she would have never said: "I love you." Because she didn't.

A little nagging voice in the back of his head was reminding him about the look in her eyes when he had been begging her to keep her mouth shut about his bloody fingerprint. If that hadn't been love… But, no, it couldn't have been. She had used him so many times in the past. Whenever she had needed an accessory to her wild goose chases, he was there to follow her like a lost puppy. Well, those days were over.

To escape his tormenting thoughts and her haunting eyes, he turned the stereo on.

Hey, I never met a girl I could miss.

Yeah, I never met a girl I could kiss.

Girls like you are very hard to find.

When I kiss you,

I kiss your lovely lips.

When I hold you,

You got one hand I want to hold.

He had never hated The Kinks so much. Not bothering with the remote, he unplugged the system.

He didn't love her. Maybe there was some residual lust, but that was all. He couldn't love her. She had ruined his life. He had spent the last three years chasing her and she had enjoyed every moment of it. Now it was his turn to enjoy. To enjoy his life without her and her obsessions. And if she had fallen in love with him somewhere along the road, even better. That could provide him with some more enjoyment. It was his turn to torture her.

"God, that thought is just monstrous," it occurred to him, but he shook the thought off, returning to his glass. "Just her just deserts." He shrugged.

That's when his cell made a shrill sound. Frowning because he had to quit nursing his whiskey, he flipped it open.

"This is Hoyt," he practically growled.

She pulled over in front of a fancy apartment building near Exeter Towers. Wearily, she dragged herself to the third floor. Apparently, the elevators weren't working. Just as she was about to duck under the police tape in front of number 351, she stopped in her tracks. Panic filled her features. How was she supposed to forget about him if they had to work on the same case and if he looked smoking hot like this? A 'damn' escaped her lips.

At the other end of the room, he spotted her as soon as she had approached the tape. How the hell was he supposed to… do whatever he had to or thought he had to when she was so freakin' more-than-smoking hot?

"Damn," he muttered and he knew from the look in her eyes that she was thinking exactly the same.