A/N: Again, sorry for the delay – I promise I'll do better next time. Also, all characters in the morgue will be involved in this fic, so if you think I've forgotten Lily, Bug, Garret and the rest of the crew, you are mistaken. People and songs namedropped in the first two chapters will be brought back later, no fear. Opening lyrics are taken from "Something Vague" by Bright Eyes, title of this chapter is taken from the Nirvana song of the same name. Please review, and email me with questions/comments. I would really like to hear some feedback from you guys!

III. Heart-Shaped Box

Now and again it seems worse than it is

But mostly the view is accurate

You see your breath in the air as you climb up the stairs

To that coffin you call your apartment

And you sink in the chair

Brushing snow from your hair

And drink the cold away

And you're not really sure what you're doing this for

But you need something to fill up the days

A few more hours…

Garret hated Sundays.

Sure, it could have something to do with the fact that this was the day both his mother and father died, the day he became an official divorcee;, the day he lost his job, and the day his best friend became a paraplegic.

But it was also the day his daughter was born, the day he knew he had fallen in love with Maggie, the day he got his job back, and the day his best friend began to walk again.

So that couldn't be it.

It wasn't anything that substantial, or memorable, and it went much farther back. It went so far back, in fact, that sometimes Garret was convinced he must have gotten the facts wrong, because something so absolutely dreadful simply could not have happened.

It was the day his cat died.

No, he didn't kill it, and neither did anyone else, for that matter; actually, it might have been more bearable if these were the circumstances. But the circumstances were less dramatic, less shocking, and much more real.

Garret had no idea – and still didn't know – what in the world killed that damn cat.

Whiskers was a silver tabby with blue eyes the color of pure, untainted pool water; but sometimes, Garret swore that his eyes turned grey in the middle of the night, when he would wake up and find a silver ball of fur curled up next to him, eyes the color of cement staring back. He remembered this look like it was his only precious memory; because it was this look exactly that he saw on Abby's face when she was younger, and it was through this look that he knew everything he ever needed to know about people. It was the saddest, most truthful look he had ever seen. It sent more pains to your heart than the worst heartbreak, but it was honest, so damn real, that it was more powerful than even the most decorated lie. Garret clung to this look like it was his last, his only, because it was – through this, through a grey that was neither black nor white, he could see clearer than he had ever seen before.

He remembered how he and his family members argued about this matter tirelessly. They claimed Whiskers had clear blue eyes – "They're as blue as a fire truck is red," his father said – but he maintained that Whiskers' eyes changed colors – "Aren't girls always saying that?" he once asked. Grey, the color of confusion, the color of madness: this is what he missed most about a childhood pet that he doubt even his brother remembered.

And then one day, he dropped dead.

Garret concluded that there was absolutely no reason for the cat to die – he wasn't old, he wasn't sick, and he wasn't killed.

He was healthy, according to the vet: "Things like this just happen," he told a grim-faced Garret.

And this was when Garret understood what his those eyes meant; that sometimes "things like this just happen" for absolutely no reason, and when they do, you have no choice but to accept them and move on.

It was for this reason exactly that he became a coroner, and it was also for this reason that he regretted it. He regretted it because he knew that this reason was true, and that identifying a cause of death as a heart attack, overdose, or cancer wouldn't explain why someone had died. Sometimes, as Garret came to understand at the tender, prepubescent age of twelve, even science has limitations.

Sometimes, 'how' didn't explain 'why.'

Sometimes, it was not a matter of explaining, but of understanding; and sometimes, the only possible thing to understand is that there was absolutely nothing to understand at all.

Death was a mystery that involved us all, the most uncertain certainty that hung over the pleasures of life the way a big rain cloud looms over sunshine.

And sometimes, there was no reason for it, no reason at all.

"A cat, Jordan? You have a cat?"

"I told you I had business to attend to!" she shouted, as she and Woody entered her apartment.

"A cat isn't business, Jordan! A cat is…well, a cat!"

In Jordan's arms, there laid a black cat the color of midnight, with fur sleek and soft as it purred softly against her chest. It eyed Woody with an expression of caution, as if to remind him that he was merely a visitor in her home. The only thing he noticed, however, was the intensity of the feline's blue eyes: the pure sapphire blue clouded with gray reminded him of a storm within the clouds. More importantly, it reminded him that he had seen those eyes before.

"Natalie just showed up one morning on my doorstep," she said, hugging it closer to her body. "I just couldn't say no…I mean, who could say no to a face like this?"

As if on cue, Natalie widened her eyes and turned her head in mock fear.

Great, thought Woody. She's taught the damn animal some of her tricks. A true Jordan cat, through and through.

"I just…" Woody paused, looking flustered, "I never thought that you would like a pet, or anything – you just seemed like such a, you know, independent person that a pet would tie you down. This is just…surprising, that's all."

"Well, I'm chock full of surprises, and you would have known that if you had stuck around, Lover Boy." Even with her playful tone, the words left Woody on edge. These were things that Woody should have known – no, could have known – but decisions had to be made and he had decided that he wanted a future without surprises. It was his philosophy that excitement was overrated, and so far, his philosophy had worked. It was precisely this; this accidental, lovable kitten nestled in her arms; that was a testament to why they just couldn't work. In fact, the solution to all the infinite complexities in their relationship was found in one basic, mathematic truth: the odds simply weren't in their favor. For every pleasant surprise, there were three unpleasant surprises just waiting to happen.

A kitten can only mean so much, he thought to himself. But damn, it's a cute kitten.

"Besides," she continued, "I've always swore that I would get a cat and a piano when I was older. And here she came, knocking on my door." She nuzzled her nose against the head of the kitten.

"Next thing I know, you're going to be telling me that a piano rang your doorbell," he muttered.

"And I doubt you'd be shocked."

He smiled at this. "Can I hold her?"

Jordan was surprised at how reluctant she was to let Natalie go. Admittedly, the thought of being a mother had crossed her mind many times, but she had always believed that she wasn't capable of maternal love. After all, you can't give what you never had. She was surprised – no, that was putting it mildly; she was shocked – to discover that she had these feelings, and she was even more surprised – shocked – to discover just how strong they really were.

"Sure," she said warmly, smiling as best as she could. Nothing is going to happen to her, Jordan. He's just going to hold her. He held out his arms as she carefully slipped Natalie against his chest. Ohmigod, he's going to drop her. Ohmigod, Ohmigod, Ohmigod – I just killed another—Oh, good, he's got her. But watch her head, she doesn't like to be supported by the neck—

"It's alright."

Jordan was about to flash him a nervous smile and admit to her matronly apprehension, until she realized that he was soothing the pet in his arms, not her. I doubt he even thinks I'm capable of any sort of love, she thought wryly. Then again, neither did I.

"Woody?"

He turned his attention from the kitten to a nervous Jordan who was peering at him somewhat nervously, an emotion he had never seen before on a woman whose best trait – and tragic flaw – lied in her complete self-confidence.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," he replied. Natalie wriggled in his arms impatiently.

"Do you read philosophy?"

"Philosophy?" He snorted. "No."

"Do you believe in all that Freudian—subconscious kind of stuff?"

"Hardly." A loud thump on the floor signaled that Natalie had moved onto bigger and better things. "You may have already guessed this, since I'm your typical, simple-minded Farm Boy, but I gave up thinking about things I can't –"he paused, searching for the right word, "feel…you know?"

He looked up at her expectantly, a gesture so simple and profound in its kindness that it rendered her speechless. She instantly saw him as that young boy in Wisconsin, the cautious older brother, the stuttering, pudgy-cheeked classmate, the loving son: eager to please. This was the Woody that she missed; no, this was a person that she missed; the type of person that simply loved for absolutely no reason, even when they shouldn't, even when you thought they couldn't; the type of person whose happiness relied upon your happiness; the type of person who was so ineffably kind that you just couldn't help but think of the wide, imploring eyes of an abandoned puppy. Or a kitten.

"Yeah…I know," she murmured quietly.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is…all I know, and I all I care about, is what I've got."

She smiled at him then, and for what reason, he wasn't entirely sure. Often, she found herself resisting the temptation to categorize him according to who he seemed to be, and often, what even he considered as who he really was: a simple southern gentleman with Midwestern values and a Midwestern heart. Often, however, where you were from wasn't who you were. (Except in Jordan's case, of course, because no one could deny her Irish temper and Boston tomboyish charm.)

It was around this time when she remembered a jigsaw puzzle that she had completed with her grandmother years ago – it was of a kitten identical to Natalie, which (secretly) was the only reason Jordan took her in. She remembered the disappointment she experienced when she completed the puzzle, the main source being that the final product did not resemble the lovable kitten on the box, but a pathetically flawed imitation of it. She had always figured that it was better to be broken – to be spread out in a million tiny, cardboard pieces all over a rich lady's carpet – than to pretend you weren't.

Obviously, Woody didn't adhere to this philosophy, because he was frantically trying to pick up the pieces – Who says things can't be put back together? And now, in moments that didn't happen as often, she realized that the effort could be just as beautiful as the picture on the box; because he was working, he was hurting; he was trying for her.

He nervously shuffled his feet and looked down to floor, and Jordan realized that she had alarmed him with her sudden display of affection – or, her smile. She immediately regretted this, believing that her gesture was mistaken for condescension, but still, she couldn't help but notice how much he resembled a nervous schoolboy – shifting his feet and eyes glued to the floor – prepared to ask a girl to a dance. She allowed him to regain his composure; after all, boys must become men; before returning her gaze.

"So, Jordan," he began, in a much lighter tone. "How long have you been philosophizing?"

She smiled wanly. "I've been having these dreams—" she paused, shaking her head slightly as if she was disagreeing with herself, " and I just can't seem to…"

"—Understand them?" he offered mildly.

"I guess so," she said with a sigh. "Anyway," she had changed back into her more flippant, feminine tone now too, "that's why I decided to keep Natalie."

"The dreams were upsetting you that much? What where they about?"

"No, no—" she shook her head, "I've been waking up in the middle of the night very…very cold…and having a warm body there next to me just – well, I just don't feel so cold anymore, I suppose."

She was able to detect a genuine concern in the way he looked up from the floor – the girl he liked wasn't able to go to the dance – only to be replaced by his boyish anxiety – oh well, she never liked me anyway.

"Do you ever feel that way?" she asked, inching slowly closer.

He looked at her in surprise – she wants to go? – and his lips formed a straight line when his eyes met hers. "I think we all do," he said so softly that she felt her cold body being wrapped around by the gentle blanket of his words.

"So…" she approached him, her eyelids lifting themselves to his, "how do we get warm?"

He turned away then; a sharp, jagged turn off the edge of a glacier; and she felt herself grow colder until she realized that the snow surrounding them might even be warmer than they were themselves.

"You face the cold head on," he said.

Outside, snowflakes continued to fall in large, scattered clumps, and cars continued to crawl on roads slicked with ice.