Disclaimer: Crossing Jordan doesn't belong to me, but damn, I wish Jerry O'Connell did.
A/N: This takes place three days after the last chapter. Sorry it took so long. :)
Jordan - 7:02 PM
I snap off my gloves and throw them in the general vicinity of the biohazard trash can. They miss the can by almost two feet, landing on the counter, and I groan.
"Story of my life," I mutter, knocking them into the trash as I walk out of the room. "A day late and a dollar short."
I trudge down the hall to my office, wishing this day would hurry up and end. After Monday, when I spent the whole day sleeping in Woody's arms, I started thinking that things would take a turn for the better. I might have been right, too, except that my stubborn recklessness joined forces with my fear of getting too close to people and destroyed any chance I might have had of making the best of this situation. As I grab my things from my office, I remember the confrontation that led to my being alone tonight.
Woody and I had a nice lunch on Tuesday, and I went back to work feeling pretty good about the world in general. That lasted until I ran into Renee Walcott. She and I rode up to the morgue in the same elevator. I was perfectly willing to do the stare-straight-ahead-and-pretend-I'm-alone thing, but Walcott had other ideas. Right before the elevator reached our floor, she glanced over at me, raising an eyebrow.
"Are you and Detective Hoyt working on a case?"
"No, we were just having lunch," I replied, realizing she must have seen him drop me off outside.
"You seem to spend a lot of time together," she observed, her tone a little snide.
"We're friends," I told her, not sure why it sounded like she was accusing me of something. I was about to find out.
The door started to open and she turned to face me, taking hold of my elbow.
"He's a good cop, Jordan," she said firmly. "Be careful. You don't want to interfere with that."
With that, she let go of me and stepped off the elevator. I was so stunned that I forgot to follow her off. The doors slid shut on my dismayed expression, and I rode the elevator up and down three times before I managed to pull myself together enough to go back to the morgue.
I spent the next three days kicking myself for involving Woody in my problems. Walcott was right. I'm infamous for running roughshod over everything and everyone that I have to in order to solve a case. If Woody is involved with me and I piss off the wrong superior – Walcott, for example– he could end up paying the price. My life is enough of a wreck; I don't need to ruin Woody's career, too.
I decided that day to leave Woody out of this, to handle my problems on my own. I just wish that getting over the fear was as easy as making the decision to shield Woody from the potential consequences of being my friend.
"Headed home?"
I jump, whirling around to find Garret watching me closely.
"Yeah," I manage to get out, trying not to let him see how rattled I am. "Yeah, I'm done for the night."
"You've been a little twitchy lately."
"I thought I was alone," I retort. "You scared me."
He raises an eyebrow at me, extending his hand in my direction. I stare uncomprehendingly at it and he sighs, taking my bag out of my arms and slinging it over his shoulder.
"Come on," he says, turning me toward the elevator.
"What are you doing?"
"Walking you to your car. I don't want to find you dead of a coronary in the parking garage tomorrow morning because somebody spooked you."
I sigh heavily, but I'm too weary to argue. Anyway, I'd die before I'd admit it, but I feel better when I'm around other people. Since the break-in, I really don't like to be alone.
Woody - 10:48 PM
I kick off my sneakers, dropping my gym bag on the floor next to the couch and making a beeline for the shower. My hand is on the doorknob to the bathroom when the phone rings. I groan, abandoning my dream of a long, uninterrupted hot shower in favor of searching for my cell phone. I'd just let it ring, but it's probably work.
"This is Hoyt," I say, holding back a sigh of exasperation. My annoyance turns to concern when I hear the voice on the other end of the line.
"Woody?"
" Jordan?" She sounds awful. " Jordan, what's wrong?"
"Can I…I…" She sighs, defeated. "Are you busy tonight?"
"Not at all," I tell her, reaching for my shoes. My desire for a shower takes a distant second to my worry for Jordan's well-being. "You want me to come over?"
She laughs self-deprecatingly. "There wouldn't be much point to that."
"Why not?"
"Because I've been sitting in your parking lot for the last hour."
I pull my beaten-up cross-trainers hurriedly onto my feet, grab my coat, and make it out the door in under six seconds. When I get downstairs I realize she was speaking literally. Her SUV is nowhere in sight; she's sitting on the hood of my sedan, her legs dangling awkwardly over the edge like a little girl's.
" Jordan," I call out, approaching her. She looks up and the tear tracks on her face shimmer under the streetlight.
"Hey," she says quietly, returning her gaze to the pavement. I stand in front of her, taking her hands in mine and flinching at how cold she is to the touch.
"Your fingers are like ice," I scold her gently, pulling off my coat and wrapping it around her. "Aren't you cold?"
"Yes," she agrees, fresh tears appearing in her eyes. I catch a whiff of her breath and nod to myself. She's been drinking; pretty heavily, I'd guess, if she's this out of it. I scoop her up in my arms, lifting her easily off of the car and setting her down on her feet.
"Let's get you inside," I tell her, keeping my arm around her waist for support. She stumbles on the stairs but I catch her, tightening my grip and leading her up to my apartment.
Once we're inside, I guide her over to the couch, sitting down next to her as she slumps back against the pillows.
"Talk to me, Jo," I entreat, taking her hand in mine and squeezing it gently. "What happened?"
"I was in the park, taking a walk to clear my head. I saw a guy playing football with his friends and all I could think was, 'What if that's him?' I don't know what he looks like, Woody. I don't know…I saw half a dozen guys in that park who were the same height and build. It could have been any of them. It could have been anyone. I'm never going to know. He's still out there – he'll always be out there –"
"It's okay, Jordan," I interrupt her as she starts to become hysterical. She looks at me, naked fear in her eyes, and my heart breaks for her. I pull her into a tight hug, wishing my presence could shield her from her fears. "It's okay. You're safe now."
She clings tightly to me, holding on as if her life depends on it. I press my face against her hair, rocking her gently. After a few minutes she starts to relax, taking deep, shuddering breaths to calm herself down.
"Sorry," she whispers finally, and I shake my head.
"It's nothing to be sorry for." I frown at the top of her head. She's been distant toward me ever since Tuesday, but I figured she was feeling better. If she's been keeping to herself because she was embarrassed about needing to ask for help, I'm going to be beating myself up over it for days. I should've tried harder to help her. I should have been a better friend to her. "Jo, have you been feeling this bad all week?"
"Not really," she sighs, pulling out of my embrace. "I mean, it hasn't been good, but tonight…"
"Tonight was rough," I agree. "But you handled it the right way. You came to me."
"Well, first I got really drunk," she disclaims.
"Really?" I tease, but she misses the amusement in my voice.
"Yeah. I was trying to…to put it out of my head. I didn't want to be afraid, so I thought…"
"You thought you could drink yourself into oblivion," I mutter to myself. Her self-destructive tendencies drive me crazy. "So what happened then?"
"It didn't work." She smiles wryly. "I'm a pretty tolerant person."
"You mean you've got a high alcohol tolerance?"
"That's what I said."
"Right."
"So anyway," she says, continuing, "it didn't work. It didn't matter how much I drank, the fear just wouldn't go away. But then I remembered the sleeping pills Dr. Montgomery prescribed for me. I had to get them from him because Stiles knows about last time…"
I don't know what 'last time' she's talking about, but I do know what happens when you mix sleeping pills and alcohol. I've worked plenty of suicides that resulted from that particular combination.
" Jordan?" I shake her shoulders as she looks blearily at me, trying to get her to focus. " Jordan, how many pills did you take?"
She responds to the urgency in my tone, producing a little white prescription bottle from her pocket. I heft it in my hand, realizing with no small amount of relief that it's either full or very close to it.
"I didn't take any. I wanted to, but I – I started thinking about when I asked you to stay with me and how safe you made me feel, and I decided to come over here instead. I lost my nerve when I got here, because of what Walcott said."
"What did Walcott say?"
Jordan sniffles, swiping at the tears on her cheeks.
"She said I'd ruin your career if we stayed friends."
"She said that to you?" I demand, instantly furious on Jordan's behalf. "Jo, she had no right. It's not true."
"It is true, Woody. I'm trouble and everybody knows it. One day I might piss off the wrong person and you could get caught in the middle. I don't want to be the reason you never make Chief of Police."
I sigh, wrapping my arm around her shoulders.
"I'm not in this to make Chief. I'm in it to solve murders, to put the bad guys away, and for that I need you. You're amazing, Jordan. You're the best ME in Boston, hands down. Everybody knows that, even Walcott."
"She doesn't like me," Jordan says, petulant, and I snort.
"You're right," I tell her, ruffling her hair affectionately. "But that doesn't have anything to do with how good you are at your job, and it certainly doesn't affect our friendship. I need you in my life at work, and I want you in my life outside of work. You're my friend. I like you, Jordan. I like having you around."
"You do?" She sounds hopeful and a little puzzled. "Why? I mean, most of the time I don't even like me."
"No?"
"I'm pushy and inconsiderate and stubborn –"
"Yeah," I agree easily. "But on you, it's cute."
"Oh," she says, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Well…good. Then you're okay with me being here?"
"I'm more than okay with it. I'm here for you 24/7, Jordan. Remember that."
"I did," she says quietly. "That's why I called you even though I was scared to get you in trouble. Because you promised I could come to you…and because I really needed you."
"You did the right thing, sweetie," I promise her, kissing her forehead. She smiles up at me, snuggling against me as her eyes start to fall shut, weighed down by the events of the evening and all of the stress she's been under.
I talk softly to her, reassuring her that she's safe and welcome here, until her breathing evens out and I know she's asleep. Then I dump the contents of the prescription bottle onto the coffee table, counting the pills as Jordan dozes against me. When I get the final count, I compare it to the number on the label. There are two pills missing.
Carefully, so as not to wake Jordan, I reach for my phone and dial the Poison Control Hotline. The woman I speak with tells me that even if Jordan took those two pills tonight they won't do her any damage, although if she's had too much to drink I should watch her carefully for signs of alcohol poisoning. I thank her and hang up.
I slide my hand behind Jordan's head and move it gently off of my chest, lowering her down to rest on the couch pillows. Once she's settled I gather up the pills and head for the bathroom. I breathe a little easier once I've flushed the last pill down the toilet.
Watching Jordan from the hallway, I dig through my rolodex and find Dr. Stiles' cell phone number. The voice that answers is groggy, but I don't have any sympathy.
"Howard Stiles."
"Dr. Stiles, this is Woody Hoyt from the police department."
"Ah, yes, Detective Hoyt. To what do I owe the late-night phone call?"
" Jordan is passed out on my couch."
"What happened?"
"She was upset. According to her, she got really drunk to forget about it, and when she couldn't knock herself out that way she remembered she had a bottle of prescription sleeping pills in her apartment."
"She needs to be in a hospital," Stiles gasps. "Call 911 –"
"She didn't take the pills," I assure him. "I counted them after she fell asleep. What I want to know is, how am I supposed to handle this? How do I make sure she doesn't do this again?"
He hesitates, gathering his thoughts.
"There are no guarantees, Detective," he says finally. "What kept her from taking the pills tonight?"
"She said she decided to come here instead, that she felt safe here."
"Then I think your best bet is to keep her feeling safe."
"Keep her feeling safe," I repeat, nodding slowly. "Right. I think I can do that…Dr. Stiles?"
"Yes?"
"She said you wouldn't prescribe her sleeping pills because you 'knew about the last time'. What did she mean?"
He clears his throat. "That's privileged information, Detective. If you want to know, you're going to have to ask Jordan, but I wouldn't do it right away. She's vulnerable right now."
"I won't push her," I agree. "Thank you."
"I'd like to see her, to talk to her about this."
"I'll ask her," I tell him, frowning. "But if she knows I called you –"
"Don't worry," he assures me. "This will be our little secret."
When I come back into the living room, Jordan is sprawled across the couch, moaning softly in her sleep. I crouch down next to her, worried that she's having a nightmare.
"Wake up, Jordan," I murmur, shaking her shoulder gently. "Jo?"
"Mmph," she groans, opening her eyes as she covers her mouth with her hand. "I'm going to be sick."
I suck in a sharp breath, unable to believe that I didn't see this coming. Jordan is about to remember why drinking as heavily as she did tonight is generally considered to be a bad idea.
"Come on," I instruct, lifting her up in my arms and carrying her into the bathroom. I just barely get her there in time. I hold her hair back for her as she gags, using my free hand to rub her back the way my mom used to rub mine when I got sick as a kid.
"Oh, God," she moans between bouts of retching, leaning back to rest her head against my chest. I hold her carefully, making sure not to jostle her. "I'm so sick."
"I know, sweetie," I murmur, kissing the top of her head. "I'm sorry. If I could make it better, I would."
"It'll pass," she says, but she sounds doubtful, and I suppress a sigh as she leans over the toilet again. Stroking her hair with gentle hands, I settle in for a long night on the cold tile floor.