A/N: It was festering in my brain for a while to write a post-ep for the season finale. I apologize if there are any canon mistakes. I didn't have this betaed. And I didn't tape the ep. And I have a really bad memory. So we're relying on my memory. Obviously, Crossing Jordan doesn't belong to me. Please review.
It was a dark night. The moonlight flickered in occasionally through the window, casting light on a lone figure hunched in the corner. She was silent. There was no need for words. There were too many words in daylight as it were. Who was she supposed to speak them to anyway? Herself? It seemed stupid, irrational. Everything she had tried not to be. A shot glass lay in front of her, by her crossed feet, and beside her was a bottle of vodka. Everything seemed to go down better with a shot of vodka.
She blinked, trying to clear the haze in her mind. How could this have happened? It's your fault. She poured herself a shot and downed it quickly. Why did he say that? It's your fault. She shook her head. Constantly, the voice in her head taunted her, blamed her. She was not a scapegoat. You're not a scapegoat, honey. You really are to blame. And her eyes burned as tears began to flow again, following a sporadic rhythm. Why does it burn? Am I really so closed off from emotions that it hurts when I cry? Yes.
She lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and more tears fell. There was a brief lapse, and as the burning subsided, slumber called out to her. Slumber, its voice calm and seductive, stretched out a hand, and she took it. And so she lay, asleep, on her floor, chestnut hair splayed behind her head.
The memories slowly began to filter in. She had been with Garret and Slokum when her phone had rung. She answered it, expecting something trivial, something worthless. And then a woman began to speak. Miss Cavanaugh, do you happen to know a Woodrow Hoyt? Her heart sunk in her chest, and she took a calming breath. Then, she replied in the affirmative. There's an ambulance on the way. ETA is around ten or fifteen minutes. He's been shot in the chest. And, at that moment, she had found it difficult to breathe. She had demanded the hospital location, and she had rushed without so much as an explanation to her superiors.
She had rushed to the hospital, almost in a panic, to find that he had not arrived yet. Just as she was about to attack the nurse or something akin, he had been rushed in. She followed him, unsure of his consciousness. How could this happen? How could this happen? And then it occurred to her. The cop shooter. There had always been a haunting fear in the back of her mind. But she had been absolutely convinced of his evasion skills, his invincibility in a way. She had followed the medical officials, and as she was about to be forcibly removed, she whispered something to him. I love you, Woody. Please. It was almost a prayer. And she hoped he heard it. How could he? He's unconscious.
All the things they had been through assaulted her mind at once. The first time they had kissed. And all the feelings they had known about, but hadn't shared. She knew that he loved her, and he knew that she had some feelings for him. Yet she had been afraid to express them. She had been afraid that if she had opened her heart to love him, there would be a chance of him leaving. There would be a chance for her to get hurt. And she really didn't need any more emotional baggage. She cursed herself now. She was getting hurt now. And she felt clichéd, but Tennyson indeed was right.
And when she went to visit him, she was satisfied. She was thankful that he was alive. And he had spoken to her about what she had said. She was shocked. "You heard me?" He had replied in the affirmative, but that wasn't the purpose of his rhetoric. He didn't want her to lie to him. It had felt like her heart was slowly being cut at. He didn't want her pity. And the knife was being twisted. She had brought it on herself. How was he to know whether or not she told the truth? She had been so cold to him and all of a sudden, she had turned and told him the truth.
"Get out." She tried to return some form of speech. "Now." And this wasn't the Woody she knew. This wasn't the one she had fallen in love with. This was some odd replacement. And he was cold, detached. He was like her.