Okay, this started as a plot-bunny in my head about three weeks ago, and I just haven't had time to write it. I kind of hoped if I ignored it, it might go away, as I have been tremendously busy, but it didn't. As plot-bunnies go, it just got bigger and threatened to multiply.
So here it is.
Now I need to disclaim you. I don't own Crossing Jordan. Tim Kring and Tailwind Productions do. I just like to borrow them and cause total chaos.
888888888888888888888888888888888888888
They were now roommates.
Of all the things he had thought they would become, roommates were not one of them.
At least not the kind of roommates he imagined. Lovers, yes.
Platonic, "you-sleep-in-your-bedroom-I'll-sleep-in-mine" roommates, no.
He was still struggling with the concept, yet here he was in this predicament. He had found out his building was going co-op and he couldn't afford to buy into it. So he was looking for another place to stay. Entering the Pogue one night, Jordan had noticed he was particularly pensive. She had asked what was wrong.
And in a moment of weakness, or a moment after one too many beers, he told her that he was, in fact, three weeks short of being homeless. Jordan had offered to let him stay with her…as her roommate …because she had moved back into Max's house, and Max had long since left Boston and wasn't sure when or if he would return. "I've got the space. You can have your own bedroom and I'll have mine. It will be perfectly platonic and totally acceptable."
Perfectly platonic was not what he had in mind with Jordan Cavanaugh. So he hedged. "Let me do some looking around…and if I can't find anything…"
"Sure," she said. "My offer stands."
So he had looked….but was having a hard time finding something that he liked, that was close to work, and that was in his price range. And with the three week deadline clicking off day-by-day….and the necessity that he actually had to take the time to pack up and move, he had finally swallowed both his doubts and his pride and took her up on her offer.
He had boxed up his belongings, put what he didn't need in storage, and found himself on her doorstep one Saturday afternoon, suitcases and houseplant in tow. Her new "perfectly platonic roommate."
God, that sounded like the new, gay, male-companion to Barbie.
Now he sat at his desk with his head in his hands, wondering just how long this platonic thing could last…if it could last.
And if it did last, what the hell was wrong with him? He would be living with what he considered to be one of the hottest women in Boston and he would have to keep his hands off of her. Remember all the grief she has caused you, said his inner voice. That should be incentive enough NOT to get involved with Jordan Cavanaugh.
That had worked. For at least the first 24-hours. Then he came downstairs on Monday morning to find her eating breakfast in her tank top and girl boxers….without a robe. He reached in the freezer to get some ice for his water, when he had really wanted to drop the cubes down his pants.
This was not going to be easy. And she was seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was making it difficult for him by being dressed…or rather mostly undressed….like she appeared. Evidently because she seemed perfectly capable and quite content to have just a "friendly" relationship, she imagined he was perfectly capable and quite content to do the same thing.
Just let her keep believing that and maybe, just maybe it would come true.
Or elephants would fly out his butt.
And if he was a betting man, he'd put his money on the elephants.
8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
"Is it true what I've heard?" asked Detective Roz Framus.
"Is what true?" asked Woody, settling himself in for the usual Monday morning chaos that followed a weekend.
"That you and Jordan Cavanaugh are living together?"
Bad news travels fast, he thought. He also realized that no matter what kind of platonic spin he tried to put on the situation, no one….no one in the department was going to believe it. So he had a choice to make. He could play along with the detectives and let their minds take them to places he only wished he could go in reality, or turn blue denying the innuendos.
Well, the blue would at least match his eyes. Cautiously he answered Framus. "Yes, but not the way you're thinking. I'm only renting a room from her until I can find a new place to stay. See, my old building went co-op…."
Framus held up a hand to cut him off. "Look. You don't have to explain yourself to me. If believing that helps mesh your Midwestern values with the fact that you're living with a woman who's not your wife…." She grinned at him.
Nervously, Woody ran his fingers through his hair. "It's true. I have my own room and Jordan has her own room."
"Oh, I can believe that. But just which room do both of you sleep in at night?"
"Look. Roz. It's really not like that. Jordan's just doing me a favor. The truth is, we can barely stand to be in the same room with each other. It's only due to the fact that Jordan works so damn many hours that this is going to work. She's never home…"
"Must be….frustrating," she said, still holding that "yeah, right" grin on her face.
"Roz…" he began, but was cut off by his cell phone ringing. "Hoyt," he said into the receiver. "Yeah. Sure. We'll be right there." Turning back to Framus, he said, "There's a body down at the wharf. We need to get on it now." He spun on his heel and quickly walked out of the office, leaving her to follow in his wake.
Mondays were always hard, but this one looked to be a real bitch.
