Chapter 8: Revelations, Part I

When Woodrow Hoyt woke up, he wasn't happy. He felt like crap.

His mind woke up first, slowly becoming aware of his own body and some of the things he could sense around him. He didn't like how he felt. What the hell had he done last night, he wondered, that made him feel like this? The last time he had binged on alcohol was more than two months ago. It hadn't been a pleasant experience, so he had purposely avoided situations where he might be tempted to do so. So if not a hangover that was making his head fuzzy and his body throb, what? It certainly wasn't his workouts. Even if he had been busy these last two weeks on the robber-cop killer case, when his mind got too cluttered with facts, he had managed to get the precinct gym – going in the back way to avoid the media – a handful of times. The exercise had not only soothed his body's pent up energy, but it had helped him focus, getting him away from both the case and the whiskey eyed coroner whose office was right next to the conference room that had become his team's headquarters. Jordan… something having to do with her was nagging at him, but the worry that was starting to build fled his mind as, when he tried roll over, pain shot across his abdomen and chest. For all that was holy! What the hell had he done to make his body feel like this? Okay, okay. It hadn't been the gym… but he had been in the gym earlier that morning when he came up with the idea that the killers had been circling the scenes of the crime, getting their jollies from watching the police scurry around. He had also been in the gym when the call came in that there was another robbery/shooting in progress.

The robbery. Maybe something had happened there. Images flashed across his memory. Getting out of the car at the scene, the shooting having already stopped. Jordan. Interviewing the bank manager. The shooting starting again. Jordan. He had gotten a call from the A/V team. He had been right. A blue Honda civic had been captured on surrounding security cameras at all of the other robberies. Almost instantly seeing the car. Running toward it, shouting at them to get out of the car. Jordan. Four young men running, guns firing. Pain. Jordan. Jordan running to him. Jordan. Jordan.

"Jordan!" His eyes finally flew open as the name escaped his lips, though it sounded more like a hoarse gasp to his ears. He tried to say her name again, but nearly choked as his dry throat rebelled.

Almost instantly, someone in colored scrubs was at his side. "There you are, Detective," she said brightly, but quietly, putting a hand on his chest to calm him. "Take it easy now, sugar. Here, let me get you some ice chips."

She placed a couple chips in his mouth, and almost instantly, he felt the blessed coolness spread through his mouth and down his throat. He tried again. "Jordan? Where Jordan?" he asked quietly.

"Jordan," the nurse repeated, understanding him now. "One of the other nurses, Tara, went to get her. She's been by your side as much as we let her, poor thing."

Woody started to panic. What had happened to Jordan?

The nurse saw his expression as she checked and adjusted his IV. "Oh, she's fine, sugar. I'm sorry I got you all scared there. I just said that because she's been wearing herself thin these past few days watching over you. Fact is, I don't think she's been home but once since, and even then it was only for a few hours. Those friends of hers wanted her to get some good sleep, in a real bed. But she came back early next morning. Told me she couldn't sleep. Poor thing. A few hours ago, we managed to find her a place to sleep inside the hospital. Had to promise we'd get her immediately if something happened, though. So Tara's gone to get her. I'm Norma, by the way."

While the nurse had happily chatted away, Woody had finally managed to wake himself up. Somewhat. At least the fog had lifted, and he could recognize that he was in a hospital. Probably the intensive care unit, since the nurses station was in clear sight… and the fact that there seemed to be more machines around him than there were in all of trace. Remembering the case, and the fact that he was a cop, pretty much told him why he was here. "I…was shot," he mumbled. "How long?"

Norma looked up at him from where she was making notes on his chart. "It's going on 10 o'clock now, Monday night. So it's been about four days. You had to have emergency surgery. There was a lot of damage, but Dr. Reece did a right nice job of patching you up. You gave us a bit of a scare those first few days, though. Developed a post-op infection. Dr. Reece had to go in and drain it and we had to put you on a ventilator. Probably why your throat still hurts a bit. We took it out earlier today, after your infection cleared and you started breathing on your own again. That little lady of yours was so happy when we did that. Being a doctor, she knew that us being able to do that meant you'd turned a corner."

Four days? He'd been unconscious for four days? Woody's head began to spin, and he closed his eyes, willing it to go away, willing himself to stay awake until Jordan came. He had to see for himself. He had seen her arrive at the robbery, shortly after he did.

He had been in emotional turmoil and agony these past couple weeks, knowing that her office was just next door, and seeing her so often. In those weeks after she had refused the friendship ring, he had tried his damnedest to push her to the back of his mind. To make his longing for her only a memory. But his heart hadn't got the message. The gate he'd put on his feelings had broken sometime in these past two weeks. No. Actually, he could pin down the moment. It had happened a couple days after the second robbery. It had been after midnight. He had been in the conference room for hours, since just after noon, alone, while his team ran down leads. Now his team had gone home, but he was still there. He'd been reading through the second ballistics report for the third time when she had suddenly appeared, placing a bottle of water and a chimichanga wrapped in tinfoil in front of him. "You've been here all day. Eat. Please," was all she had said. He'd looked into her eyes, saw the concern, felt himself give a slight nod. She had smiled, her eyes sad, and then gone back to her office. His had watched her the entire way, not quite knowing what was happening. She'd given him one more quick glance through the glass between the rooms, and then left her office to go to trace. The instant she was out of sight, he knew what had happened, and he wanted to slap himself on the forehead. His desire and admiration for Jordan Cavanaugh hadn't faded one bit. He was as much in love with her as ever. He held back, though. Their last real conversation, that day, had made that gap between them wider than ever. And it was partly his own doing. He didn't know how to even start to bridge the gap, but fate bid him wait. The next day, and the days that had followed had swallowed his attention.

And that day, the one four days ago, he had seen her at the scene of the crime. And after the shooting had started, as he was directing the others, he had seen her again, popping up from behind the safety of a police car. His heart had lurched in his chest, and for a half second he forgot to breathe. What the hell was she doing, exposing herself like that? He wanted to run over to her, shake her for being so careless, but his phone had rung; the A/V guys telling him about the Honda. Everything after had happened so quickly, and the last he remembered, Jordan had been running toward him, his vision at a tilted angle. He had wanted to both wrap his arms around her to keep her safe and shake her for coming out onto an active crime scene unprotected. Before he could do either, he had gone numb and everything faded away. He had no idea what had happened after, and so now he wanted, no, needed to know what had happened. If she was okay.

"Ah, there's Tara and Jordan now."

Woody tilted his head to the right and saw her through the window. He watched as Tara helped her into a gown and gloves. Her hair was pulled up into a hasty, messy ponytail. She was wearing blue jeans, a white t-shirt, and a Kelly green sweater. Her arms were wrapped around herself, and Tara had one hand on her back, almost leading her forward. She was walking tentatively, slowly, but unimpeded. There were no bandages, no scrapes that he could see. He closed his eyes in relief, and when he opened them again, she was at his bedside, her hand reaching tentatively for his. He smiled. His angel. She was here. "Hi," he whispered.

Her eyes crinkled, filled with tears. Of relief, he hoped. But then, abruptly, she withdrew her hand and brought it to her mouth. "I can't do this," she said softly, turned on her heel and walked quickly from the room, breaking into a run once she was through the door.

Woody's brow furrowed, and he felt his heart constrict. He looked up to Norma for an explanation.

But Norma was looking out the door through which Jordan had just run. Then she looked back at him. "Now that was just downright spooky. I've never seen her act like this. Almost as if she were afraid of you."

Woody looked back toward the door. He closed his eyes, feeling more than physical pain. Nothing had changed.


AN: Woo hoo! Another chapter! Just one more left, and then the epilogue. And I'll be burning the midnight oil (figuratively speaking) to get them done before the finale. (Since I live in CA, I'll try to make sure they're posted before 9:00 EST, for those on the East coast). Okay, done babbling.

AN2: I know that Woody's Catholic, so I refrained from having him take the lord's name in vain. For the purpose of this story, I choose to have Woody be less orthodox in his religion. Apologies to any who find this offensive in any way.

AN3: Yeah, I know the title of the chapter is the same as a certain show that many CJ fans wish the promo monkeys had never gotten their hands on. But the title fit, and so I used it.