Author: ScarlettMithruiel
Classification: R (J/W), A
Rating: PG-13?
Summary: Woody thinks about his relationship with Jordan and comes upon a conclusion.
Author's Note: Just a random plot bunny. Enjoy. Please leave feedback.
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Detective Woody Hoyt was seated in a dark corner booth of Max's bar, a small glass of vodka resting on the table. He glanced around the bar, ideas and memories of film noir arising in his mind. How simple it would be to be a "Sam Spade" or another Dashiell Hammet character, head bedecked with a stereotypical fedora, dressed in a long trenchcoat, teeth clamped around a lit cigarette, the paper fading as fast as the embers would allow it to. He took a sip and relished the feeling of the clear liquid burning its way down his throat.
Film noir provided one rule regarding females. Women were either weak or femme fatales. And Jordan, he thought with a bitter laugh, could definitely be classified as a femme fatale. He had chosen this particular drink for a reason. Vodka burns. Vodka was his temporary ether. It helped relieve his pain.
Pain was something he tried not to feel anymore. It burned right through his soul when he looked at Jordan. So beautiful, but so unattainable. Not by some outside force or anything but by her. So afraid. So detached.
The first time he had kissed her...he couldn't describe the feeling. At all. It was wonderful. His attention was diverted from his thoughts as Nigel, Lily, and Bug nestled into the booth next to him. "Hey," they greeted.
"Hey."
"What are you drinking there?" Nigel inquired, curious.
"Vodka." Their eyes widened slightly and Nigel left well enough alone. He downed the last of the clear liquid and called a waitress. He ordered another. "You sure you should be drinking another?"
His eyes flared with bitterness that protruded out into their own individual souls and for a moment, Nigel almost could fathom his emotions. "The man had offered his emotions and has been scorned," Nigel thought. "Let him brood." The waitress returned with another glass and he took another sip.
Why did he let her torment him? Why did he allow her to wreak such unfixable havoc on his emotions? The liquor made him numb, and for that he was grateful. He'd rather not feel anything when he was pondering her and what she'd done.
Devan had been refreshing. Delightful in her energy and feistiness, she had filled the void in his heart, if only temporarily. Her death had only caused the void to grow. His heart had splintered to pieces long ago.
He still hadn't answered his own question. Why didn't he leave her? She had already told him no. Why did he keep returning to be hurt?
"Because you love her," his inner voice said. And he realized the truth. He did.
"I love Jordan," he muttered to himself, in somewhat surprise. The curious eyes of her co-workers shifted over to him. And as an afterthought, he quickly added, "But she doesn't love me." And his soul burned with the fiery fury that he had become so accustomed to. He drank the rest of the liquor, and threw his money on the table, heading out of the stifling building.