London After Midnight
DISCLAIMER: Daaamn, I thought I was going to go crazy when went down. At least it gave me time to complete this chapter so I could post two at once. Man, I really, really hate J&W scenes and I was afraid this chapter was going to suck. But it took an interesting turn on me at the end and I ended up being pretty cool with it. I wish Woody would really wise up like this on the show, lol.
Chapter Four
"Which Way Did You Think He Was Going To Fall?"
Jordan
I see him leave, soundlessly slipping out the door and closing it softly behind him. I want to call out to him or follow him, even though I don't know what I'd say if I did. Besides, Woody's right here, and sometimes there are things I want to do, but I don't want anyone to know that I want to do them, so I don't. If I left Woody alone in my office to go chasing after Nigel Townsend, then that would be weird and odd and it would have to mean something. And when something means something, it ruins everything. It's scary and threatening and it would be better if I just sat here and let Woody ask his questions, because that's normal and expected and what I'm used to. Sometimes it's just easier to do what you're used to. I can't handle any more surprises tonight.
"I was thinking I could get him down," I reply to Woody's former query, very plainly and very calmly and very staccato. "Obviously I didn't do such a good job of that."
"Hey, that's not your fault." His voice is gentle and I feel his arm slip around my shoulders, turning me against his chest. One of my knees touches one of his and it's nice, I guess, to be held by a man that is not my father. But Woody smells like too much Old Spice and I close my eyes against the strong aroma because they water with the responsibility of it. This is always how it starts, with the Old Spice and the arm around the shoulder, nice and calm and normal. I can sit here and let him hold me and be fine, and then the walls slowly start to creep in on me and suddenly it's like I'm suffocating.
"The guy was a lunatic, Jordan, he tried to kill you. Don't blame yourself for this." His hand is on my head, in my hair. The wall with the window moves a little closer, the door moves a little farther away.
"Yeah, I know," I whisper, a little uncomfortable and a little overwhelmed. "I know. I'm not. Look, I'm not... I'm not really ready to talk about this right now, okay? I told you at the Pogue I wanted to be alone." My mouth is dry. Suffocating. I need water, I need air, I need space. The problem with Woody is he comes on too strong, a golden retriever bounding into the room barking and jumping at me, begging me to shake his paw, throw him a stick, something, anything. He means well but he's blatant and he's obvious and that scares the shit out of me.
"Okay," he whispers back, lowering his hand from my hair but keeping his arm around my shoulders. "We don't have to talk about it now. I'm just glad you're okay, Jordan. I was really worried you were gonna... you know. Do something... stupid. Back there."
What am I supposed to say to that? Like what, Woody, kill myself? Well, I thought about it, Farm Boy, so try that on for size. I don't know. I don't know what I'm supposed to say. I know he has the best intentions but the Old Spice is clogging my throat. I push away and stand, pacing to my desk and leaning back against it, ten fingers clutching the wood.
I wish Nigel was still here, I wish it was still Nigel. He's good at taking my mind off things. Now that he's gone I can't stop thinking about it, I keep replaying what happened in the apartment over and over in my head, hearing the words, the splash.
I didn't want to talk about it yet. I wanted time to let it sink in.
"Jordan?" Woody hasn't stood from the couch yet but I know that he will soon.
"Were you trained to handle jumpers?" My voice comes out of nowhere, distant and slightly distracted, my mind putting something together, snapping things into place like a jigsaw puzzle.
"What do you mean?" He stands on cue, makes his way over to the desk, and leans next to me, mirroring my stance almost exactly. It annoys me slightly, but I'm too preoccupied to move just yet.
"I mean, were you trained? To handle suicidals? The proper procedure for talking them down?" I know where I'm going with it now and I come out of my memory with full force, my eyes piercing through Woody's soft aquamarine with my sudden focused stare. The words gather just behind my lips, ready to explode if he gives me an answer I don't like.
"Well, yeah. I mean, I guess. Where are you going with this, Jordan?"
I don't like it.
"You're not supposed to pull a weapon on a jumper," my voice is clipped, irritated, precise. "You're not supposed to do that. It scares them. You're supposed to just talk to them, get them to trust you. Let them know life is worth living. God, fuck, I don't know, lie to them if you have to, anything to get them down. That's supposed to be the main objective, getting them down." I push away from my desk and stalk across the room to the center of it, the shock of my brother's suicide subsiding and being replaced with anger, horror, realization.
"I know that, Jordan," Woody pushes away from the desk too, he pushes away from the desk and shadows me right into the center of the room and that really makes me mad. "I tried, okay, but-"
"No, you didn't!" I'm shouting suddenly, shouting now. "I don't want to hear that you tried. I tried. Maybe not as much as I should have, but I was the one that tried. You were the one waving your big fucking gun around and telling me to get out of the way so you could get a clean shot!" A hoarse cry tears itself from my throat and I feel tears just behind my eyelids that I don't dare let pass.
"Jordan, I didn't say it like that!" he exclaims, reaching out for me, wrapping his hand around my forearm. I tear it away.
"Yes, you did! Yes you did! That's exactly how you said it!" My brow furrows as I remember, and I know that it's the truth. "'Move out of the way, Jordan, so I can get a clean shot.' That's exactly what you said. What the fuck, Woody? Did the police academy in Kewaunee train you to shoot at a man on a window ledge? Which way did you think he was going to fall if you hit him? Back into the apartment?!" I'm verging on hysteria now, I didn't realize any of this while it was happening, not any of it. I should have told Woody to leave, I should have got him out of the apartment. I could have talked James down, I know that I could have if Woody wasn't there.
"He was reaching out for you, Jordan!" Woody's really yelling too, now, and I can't tell if he's concerned or angry and I don't really care either way. "He was going to pull you over the edge! What was I supposed to do?"
"I can take care of myself!" I growl, stepping away from him, needing to put physical distance between us and fast. "He wasn't anywhere near me! He wouldn't have pulled me if I didn't want to go! How dare you threaten to shoot him, that's not your call! You made it seem like there was no alternative! Move out of the way so I can get a clean shot? Jesus fucking Christ, Woody, Jesus fucking Christ!"
"He had a gun too, Jordan!" Woody refuses to give in to defeat; his nostrils flare as he stands rooted in place - I guess he needs physical distance too, right now. "Maybe you forgot about that! Look, I understand you're upset-"
"Upset?!" I'm livid now, crossing back to him with determined speed.
"-But it isn't my fault James killed himself!"
My hands fly at his collar; I grip fistfuls of his shirt and shake him with futile strength that weakens as my anger melts into sadness. "Yes it is!" I cry, my voice rough and deepening with the tears I've held back all fucking night long. "Yes it is. He put his gun down. I told you not to shoot."
"I didn't shoot, Jordan," his voice is hushed again, almost a whisper. He reaches up to brush my cheek with his fingers and it takes me a second to realize he's clearing my face of tears. I'm crying. No, I'm sobbing. "Jordan, I didn't shoot."
"I know! Fuck!!" I release his collar, every movement tense with exasperation, and I back away, nearly collapsing against the couch. "Just go away, Woody. Just go away."
"Jordan, I don't want to leave you alone like this." I don't even lift my eyes to look at him. It's horrible enough I'm crying in front of him, in front of anyone, I don't need him to see me in all my vulnerable glory too.
"I'm fine!!" I shout, and my hands are balled up fists at either side of my head, grabbing at my own sweaty, curling hair in frustration. "You never take a hint! Just go the fuck away!"
There's silence for a long time after that, but no footsteps. He doesn't leave. He doesn't leave and that makes me so angry that all there is to do is cry, cry still, cry harder, my eyes squeezed shut, my hair straggling down into my face like a little girl having a temper tantrum. I guess in a way I am. I feel like any minute now I'm going to stand up and throw myself at the wall, kicking and punching and screaming the entire time.
"I know you feel like you have to blame someone, Jordan." His voice is so calm and so controlled that it makes me want to spit at him. For no reason, for no good reason at all. "Because this is such a fucked-up situation and there's no real explanation for it. But this isn't my fault and you know it, and all I ever wanted to do was help you. Not just because I'm a cop and it's my job. Because I care about you and you're my friend. No matter what happened or didn't happen between us. I know that you're not interested. I'm not stupid. I'm not a stupid guy, even though sometimes it feels like you think that. I know you don't... want me. I accepted that a long time ago, Jordan. In the desert. I just want to be your friend. I just want to help you in any way you'll let me." There's another pause, a briefer one, and I can hear him sigh. "But you won't let me, will you? Okay, Jordan. Fine. I'll take the hint this time. I'll go away. I'm sorry about your brother. I'm sorry this had to happen." Footsteps now, and the door creaks open. "They found his body, Jordan. It's in the crypt."
Then the door closes, as quietly and as calmly as his words had been, the sound seeming almost like an extension of Woody's speech. The last thing he said to me echoes around in my brain and I force myself to get a grip, releasing my hair, wiping at my tears with my wrists, sniffling emotion back inside of me where it belongs. I brush my hair back behind my ears with wet fingers and stand from the couch, walking with sudden determination to the door, on the way to the crypt to visit my brother's body.