Title: One Step Closer Away
Author: Angel of Fate
Summary: Woody and Jordan are always just one step closer away. (Woody/Jordan)
Rated: PG13 for now.
Disclaimer: If I owned either Crossing Jordan, any of its characters or NBC I'd be a very rich woman. Alas I don't and I'm quite broke. Also, any quotes that appear at the beginning of the chapter (as well as this story's title) belong to The Tea Party, not moi. In accordence to site rules, all lyrics have since been removed from the beginning of the chapters. frowny face
AN: This is my first Crossing Jordan fic, so any constructive criticism is appreciated! Thanks so much, and enjoy!
Jordan Cavanaugh lay awake in her bed, the sheets tangled around her legs. The room was dark, but she could still see the faint shadows dance upon the walls, little puppets of the moonlight that played only at night. She exhaled a shaky breath and forced her eyes shut, but it was no use. Every time she closed her eyes, his face could be seen beneath her lids. A vivid image that crept passed her lashes and wouldn't go away.
She thought about running. About throwing all her belongings in a bag, hopping in her car and driving for miles. Maybe to New York or Chicago, some big city just like Boston that would swallow her up whole and she could go unnoticed. But Jordan knew from experience that running rarely solved anything and when she got back she'd be in an even bigger mess than when she left. It always seemed to work out that way, as irritating as it was. She supposed it was one of life's many cruel jokes.
Like its current devious plan.
Her head began to throb, and she couldn't tell if it was from lack of sleep or the thoughts that kept pounding away at her brain. Probably both. She flailed about, kicking away the sheets that encompassed her and grabbing a pillow she flung it over her face. This served two purposes, it muffled the frustrated scream that she had just let out and it also blocked what little light that had entered the room when the lacy curtains had blown far from the window they were supposed to be covering. But it was no use. As soon as Jordan was in complete darkness again, she could make out his smile.
He had the most fantastic smile. His lips would curve up just slightly in a crooked grin, before his face would stretch out wide. And that's when you could see the small dimples that lay nestled in his cheeks. Cheeks that Jordan assumed once belonged to a chubby little boy and there was more than one occasion that she wanted to reach out and pinch them. And his eyes. Oh, God his eyes. Intensely blue, just like the ocean.
Jordan pushed the pillow from her face.
"What the hell is wrong with me?" she shouted in a whisper. She, Dr. Jordan Cavanaugh, should not be thinking about him in this way. Or anyway for that matter. Unless it was work related. And this was far from work related. As a certified medical examiner she was sure there was some rule that forbid her from picturing him with only—"Stop it Jordan!" she scolded herself.
She once again closed her eyes, desperate for some sleep. This time, instead of her own nagging thoughts keeping her awake, the phone gave out a shrill ring. Jordan quickly glanced at the digital alarm clock, confirming that it was indeed an ungodly hour in the night (or morning depending how you looked at it) for anyone to be calling. She tumbled out of bed, fumbled for the light switch and picked up the phone on its fourth ring.
"Cavanaugh," she answered into the receiver, in a groggy voice she didn't know that you could have if didn't get any actual sleep.
"Hey," was the simple greeting from the other end. And it was him, not coincidentally. Detective Woodrow Hoyt, waking her up this early. Or would have been if she were sleeping. The nerve.
"Woody," Jordan stated, soon followed by, "do you know what time it is?"
"Yeah, sorry about that Jordan," Woody frowned, looking at his watch. "I just really needed to talk to you."
"Oh?" she questioned. "Now?"
"Well, yes. I guess it could wait…" there was a long, uneasy pause. "I couldn't sleep, there's this really tough case I've been working on. Occupying all my thoughts, you know?"
"Oh yeah," Jordan let out a sigh. She knew how it was to have something pick at you, taunting you every step of the way. When she had something on her mind it would crawl and creep around in her head, shoving anything and everything onto the back burner.
"Listen, I know it's late—early or whatever—but I just can't get this off my mind," Woody said.
"Why don't you come over?" she suggested. "I wasn't getting much shut-eye myself. I'm thinking company might not be such a bad thing at the moment."
"You can't sleep?" Woody's voice immediately turned concerned, making Jordan smile and shake her head.
"It's nothing Woody," she assured. "Just come over to my place in about twenty or so."
"Thanks Jordan," he said, preparing to hang up the phone.
"Oh, and Woody," Jordan began before he could, "bring coffee."
Woody showed up in front of her loft style apartment in exactly twenty minutes, bearing not only coffee, but doughnuts as well. He smirked as he tried to think of what 'cop and doughnut' joke that Jordan would spring on him. He bet himself five dollars that it would be something along the lines of "bad cop, no doughnut". Although Woody figured it was somewhat senseless to make a bet with himself; he knew he would get some pleasure out the victory if he did win.
He jogged up the stairs, feeling the need to get his aching muscles working, something that the elevator just wouldn't do for him. He was a bit out of breath when he reached Jordan's door, and he thumped his head against the hard wood. Jordan heard the bang and swung open the door, causing Woody to stumble into her apartment.
"Always been one for a grand entrance, haven't you Woody?" Jordan quipped.
"Well, I was Miss Teen Wisconsin," he remarked.
"Impressive," she nodded.
"Mom thought so," Woody added as an afterthought.
Woody walked over to the counter and began unloading the doughnuts and coffee from the brown paper bag he held in his left hand. Jordan hopped up on the barstool, eagerly swiping at the large Styrofoam cup. As she leaned forward to grab the stack of files that Woody had also dumped on the counter, her housecoat fell open. Woody resisted the urge to stare. He had to admit it was hard not to. She was so beautiful. Long brown hair, many shades darker than his own, so much so it was almost black, that fell in heavy waves. And she had these horribly serious golden eyes that could make almost any man tremble. Well they made him tremble anyway. He hadn't let her know when he had called her, but she was also part of the reason that he couldn't sleep.
Jordan hadn't bother getting dressed, sighting that it was too much trouble if she would just have to do it later in the morning anyway. Instead she sat still in her pajamas, flannel plaid boxer shorts and an old tank top. She threw the housecoat overtop because she had been cold. It was a ratty old thing that had once belonged to her father, and when he had finally given up on it and was about to throw it out, Jordan rescued it. It was an ugly shade of blue, there was a hole underneath the right armpit and one of the belt loops was torn, making it near impossible to keep the darn thing closed. She remembered this and began to pull it together when she noticed Woody's gaze.
"What, never seen a woman before Woodrow?" she arched an eyebrow and Woody averted his eyes. "You know what they say, 'Bad detective, no doughnut'," she laughed and so did Woody. Five bucks.
Jordan thumbed through the file that rested on the top of the pile. Skimming over the contents. Digesting the photos.
"So, what gives?" she asked, now in reference to the case that had Woody so troubled.
"This guy is impossible to catch Jordan," Woody took a seat beside her. "Clean as a whistle, leaves no evidence behind. Just a quick slice to the throat, with a kitchen knife that belongs to the victim. No sign of forced entry, no trail. Nothing."
"How many were they?" Jordan grabbed another file, this one belonging to a Jillian Clare.
"Seven so far," he murmured. "There doesn't seem to be any apparent relation between the vics either. But it can't be random…"
"Why not?" she questioned.
"What are you saying?"
"Well, what if it is random? What if it's killing for the sake of killing?"
"Jordan," Woody all but rolled his eyes. "There's always a reason for something."
"If that's so…than what's his?" Jordan scanned the documents briefly.
It was three hours later and the sun had began to rise, encasing Jordan's apartment in a rosy glow. Jordan and Woody had since moved to the sofa, papers and document strewn over the table, floor and chair. Woody rested his back to the armrest, leafing through some papers, Jordan sat beside him their legs almost tangled together. Jordan stifled what seemed like her fourteenth yawn in the past two minutes. Woody looked over at her, her nose buried in a bunch of newspaper clipping from the case, and gave a faint smile.
"What do you say I pack all this up and head on out. We haven't been able to make heads or tails of it all night anyway," Woody sighed.
"C'mon Woody, where's your dr-ive?" Jordan asked, but was interrupted by yet another yawn.
"Apparently somewhere with yours," he chuckled and began to gather up his things. "So, you never did tell me why you couldn't sleep Jordan."
She shrugged, and flashed him a quick grin.
"Oh, so it's going to be that way, huh?" Woody winked.
"You're the detective, figure it out," Jordan challenged slyly.
"Oh yeah?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.
"Yeah," she repeated.
Before Jordan had time to think, Woody had lunged for her, pulling her down onto the sofa with him. Jordan tried to wriggle free of his grasp, but he kept a tight hold on her. His fingers dug into her sides, tickling her mercilessly. She bit back a very un-Jordan like giggle, but he wouldn't give, so she had too. When she let out a very Jordan like snort, it was Woody's turn to stop and laugh. But as he stopped they realized their situation. And boy was it a sticky one. Jordan lay under Woody, the strap of her shirt had fallen loosely on her shoulder, Woody's knee was wedged between hers, her left arm draped across his back, his hands on her waist. Very sticky.
It took no more than a moment for Woody's lips to crash down upon hers. And with that came the memories of their first kiss in LA. A kiss that shouldn't have happened in the first place, and a kiss that certainly didn't need a follow up "for the road" kiss. But here they were again, after only one sleepless night. And it seemed so right and so wrong at the same time.
"Woody stop," Jordan commanded, pushing him off her, her palms pressing hard into his shoulders.
"Jordan…I…" Woody couldn't form the words.
"Forget it Woody," she replied, sweeping her hair from her face.
"No. Damn it Jordan, no!" Woody leapt to his feet. "We can't keep doing this!"
"Doing what?" Jordan asked in a somewhat innocent manner, but it was the horribly serious eyes that betrayed her.
"You know what," he said. "What are we? Are we friends Jordan?"
"Sure we are Woody," she pressed her hand together, willing them to stop shaking. Amazing how fast a sticky situation could turn even stickier.
"Well, then what the hell are we doing?"
"Woody, it was nothing," Jordan argued.
"That's it Jordan," Woody continued at the confused look on her face, "I don't want it to be nothing. I want it to be something."
"Oh Woody," Jordan could feel the panic rise up in her throat. Or was it bile? "That wouldn't be a good idea. You know that. We'd just end up hurting each other."
"And we're not hurting each other this way?"
"No! No, I'll end up hurting you! Is that what you want to hear? That I can't love you?" Jordan didn't yell, but there was a frightening edge to her voice.
"What if I could promise you that wouldn't happen Jordan?" Woody stated softly, his hands grabbed for hers.
"No one can promise something like that Woody," she shook her head sadly. And what she said was true, no matter how much she wanted to believe him.
The incessant ringing of Woody's phone cut through their thoughts. Phones always have a keen sense of impeccable timing.
Woody rummaged in the pockets of his coat and retrieved his cell phone. Flipping it open he answered with a gruff, "Hoyt."
"Woody, it's Winslow," he heard.
"Not a great time Eddie," Woody told him, exasperated.
"The hell it isn't! Get your ass down here," Woody heard nothing else but a loud, irritated click.
Closing his phone shut, Woody turned to Jordan, whose hands were once again folded tightly together.
"Look, I have to go…" he trailed off.
"Yeah, sure," she responded.
"Jordan we need to finish this," Woody declared.
"Woody—" Jordan started, but he cut her off.
"Jordan, I can promise you. You just have to let me," Woody's lips quirked in a half smile before he pressed them into her hair and exited her apartment.