Disclaimer: I don't own Crossing Jordan, but I'm glad AE seems to like showing it. Today I finally got to see the kiss!

The next morning
Jordan

"Come on, Jordan," Woody's voice coaxes me. I squeeze my eyes shut instinctively, curling into a tighter ball.

"I'm sleeping," I mumble into my pillow. "G'way."

"Jordan," he says again, his breath warm against my ear. "Let's go, baby. Time to wake up."

The nearness of him encourages me to give it a shot, but that encouragement is outvoted when I try to open my eyes and am confronted by far too much light. The jackhammer behind my right temple kicks it up another notch in angry response.

"Oh, God," I groan. Something cool and soft comes to rest on my forehead, and I squint up at Woody, realizing he's responsible for the wet washcloth that's starting to take the edge off of my aching head.

"Hey, sunshine," he whispers, stroking my hair with gentle fingers. "How're you feeling?"

"My head," I groan painfully, and he nods.

"Are you still feeling sick?"

I frown, thinking hard. "No," I say finally. "Was I sick?"

"Violently," he tells me with a rueful smile, cupping my cheek with his hand. "You don't remember?"

I'm about to tell him I don't when suddenly I recall a snippet of last night: me vomiting in a vaguely familiar bathroom, feeling like my stomach was turning itself inside out and really, truly wishing I were dead…Woody's hands holding back my hair, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispered words of sympathy and compassion…feeling horribly ill, but less horribly alone than I had all night while I was throwing back shot after shot of tequila in my living room.

"Woody, I'm so sorry," I mutter, my eyes stinging with embarrassed tears. I got blitzed and came over here to make Woody clean up my mess, as usual. "I'm such a train wreck."

"It's okay, Jo," he says gently. "I'm really glad you came to me last night."

"Yeah," I snort. "I'm sure that was your idea of a fun Friday night."

He sits down next to me on the bed, wrapping his arm around me, and I tilt my head sideways to rest against his shoulder.

"You needed help last night and you came to me. I respect that, and I can't tell you how grateful I am that you did." He kisses my forehead, communicating volumes of emotion with one small gesture. "I was scared for you last night, Jordan."

"I didn't want to be afraid anymore," I whisper, a tear slipping down my cheek. Woody brushes it cautiously away. "I wasn't trying to – to hurt myself. I just wanted to feel safe again."

"Well, you're safe here," he says decisively. "You feel safe here, right?"

"Yeah, of course." I look down at my hands, smiling self-consciously. "You're here."

"Then we'll move you in."

"What?"

"Today," he elaborates, ignoring the incredulity in my tone. "You need to feel safe, Jordan. I don't ever want a repeat of last night. I don't ever want to feel that helpless again. If you're staying here, we'll both feel better."

"Woody, I can't just move in with you."

"Yes, you can."

"But –"

"No, Jordan. No buts." He lifts my face to his, looking me squarely in the eyes. "You can't go on like this."

"I know," I whisper, my voice rough with unshed tears. "I know I can't. But Woody, this isn't – it's not like me. I don't need people."

"Everybody needs people, Jordan. You know, 'no man is an island'."

"I'm not a man," I quip weakly. "Come on, you know how I am. I hate this. I mean, I hate that I'm being so needy, not that I hate being with you, because I don't, it's nice, I just –"

"Jordan," he interrupts, pressing a finger to my lips to cut off my babbling. "I understand…I think I do, anyway. But that's not important right now."

"It's important to me!"

"That's not what I meant to say. Your independence is important to me, too. It's part of what makes you who you are. I'm not trying to change you, Jordan, or make you into somebody you aren't. I just think it's more important for you to be safe than independent right now. You agree with that, don't you?"

I think seriously about it for a minute. My independence has always been a cornerstone of my personality, a way I've defined myself. Am I willing to throw that all away, to exchange it for peace of mind? I've never been willing before: not with Tyler, not with my job or my place of residence. Is this so much worse than all the other times I've had to deal with something bad alone?

Even as I form the question, I know the answer. Nothing I've ever dealt with before, with the exception of my mother's murder, involved a threat I didn't provoke. Even the situation with Digger was of my own making; I'm the one who went to his trailer and dropped my ID for him to find, making me a target. This time, though, I didn't do anything to incite the situation. The attacker picked me at random, and the idea that a random person could attack me on a whim has shaken me to the core. I need to know that I'm safe, and I can't be sure of that if I'm living alone. With Woody around, I have the security I so desperately need. I'm just going to have to let myself rely on him for a little while. At least I know he'll be there for me when I need him. There's something to be said for good old-fashioned Midwestern dependability.

"You're right," I say finally, reluctant. "But it's not like I'm moving in forever. I just need a little time to get my feet back under me."

"That's fine with me. You can stay as long as you want, and you can leave whenever you feel ready."

"No strings?"

"No strings," he agrees, and I sigh.

"Then I guess we've got a deal."

"Good," he replies, patting my shoulder. "Let's go get your stuff."

Jordan's apartment
Woody

Under Jordan's direction, I help her pack an assortment of tank tops, sweaters, and jeans into a duffel bag. She's got enough for at least two weeks, which tells me that despite her initial reluctance she's as serious about this as I am. We also make a small stack of nice clothes that need to be hung up – 'Just in case,' Jordan explains with distaste, and I smile. Jordan is the quintessential t-shirt-and-jeans girl, and she hates dressing up.

To my disappointment, she packs her undergarments herself. I try to catch a peek at them, reaching into the bag and grabbing at a scrap of powder blue lace, but Jordan slaps my hand away.

"No funny stuff, Detective," she warns me, giving me a sideways smile. "I'm not that kind of girl."

"Well, we are living together now," I quip, and she rolls her eyes.

"Be careful, Farm boy, or you'll be sleeping on the couch."

"You can't do that; it's my apartment!"

I'm pretending to put up a fight, but I'm pleasantly surprised at the change in Jordan's attitude since this morning. Maybe having a firm plan to deal with her fears has made her more comfortable. Whatever caused the change, I hope she stays this way for a while. I don't mind taking care of Jordan when she's down – truth be told, I like seeing her softer side. I just wish I could see that side of her without having to see her hurting as well.

"It was your apartment," she corrects me airily. "Now it's our apartment."

I try not to laugh, but the innocent 'who, me?' look on her face pushes me over the edge. She joins in, and for a moment things are back to normal.

"I think I'm all packed," Jordan says finally, when our laughter has subsided. She shoulders the duffel bag, looking around for anything she's forgotten and nodding, satisfied. "Bring those clothes, will you?"

I take the stack from the bed obediently, and I'm about to follow Jordan out of her bedroom when something catches my eye. There's a green cotton dress hanging in her closet, incongruous in its feminine simplicity. I can't imagine the Jordan Cavanaugh I know buying anything like it, and I can't help but wonder how she looks in it.

"Woody? Are you coming?"

Decisively, I grab the dress out of the closet, burying it in amongst her other clothes. I'll get her to wear it somehow.

She raises an eyebrow at me when I come into the living room, but when she sees my guileless expression, she merely shrugs.

"Want to stop somewhere for breakfast?" she proposes. "I'm starving."

"You read my mind," I tell her, throwing a companionable arm around her shoulders as we head through the door. She hesitates for a moment when she reaches out to lock it behind us, and I know without asking that she's thinking about the break-in. I squeeze her tightly against me, reminding her silently of my supportive presence, and the movement is enough to jolt her out of her reverie. She turns the key in the lock, giving me a soft smile and gesturing toward the stairs.

"Come on, Farm boy. Daylight's wasting."