Disclaimer: This is just a bit of a follow up disclaimer to say that for about twenty minutes I did own Crossing Jordan, but I don't anymore. Therefore, the show, the characters, all the other junk, doesn't belong to me.

AN: Well, this here is the second chapter. I'm a little unsure of it, but I thought "What the heck?" and went and posted it anyway. Thanks for all the kind reviews on the first chapter!

traceyh- Yes, there will be a few darker parts, and while I could make this all angst ridden I think it's always nice to have a few little bits of 'lightheartedness'.

E & britt- Thanks for the kind words! Muah!

Jez1- Glad you thought that the characterization was well done, because I was a bit worried about that.

jtbwriter- I actually don't think Jordan knows what she needs! But like you said, in this story Woody is definitely going to try.

Enough of all that! Onto the story, enjoy!

AN2: I've uploaded a slightly revised version of chapter 2. (And by slightly, I mean exactly one sentence is changed). This is only because after going over the chapters I realized that that one sentence in chapter 2 contradicted something from chapter 1. No biggie, just needed to fix it is all. : )

Jordan tried to rid her mind of what happened between her and Woody this morning, but it was proving harder than she thought. The sounds of the morgue kept intruding. Two uniformed cops stood outside the door engaged in a loud shouting match with DA Walcott and Garret. And somewhere down the hall she could hear a woman wailing loudly. It was going to be one of those days. She rested her forehead in her cradled hands, playing the old game of 'if I can't see you, you can't see me'.

"Jordan, Autopsy B," Dr. Macy barked at her. Apparently, Garret didn't know the rules of the game. He should really learn to play along.

"Sure thing Garret," she mumbled, barely lifting her eyes, let alone her head.

"Something wrong Jordan?" he asked.

"No. Nothing that should matter anyway," Jordan feigned a smile.

"Great," Garret returned with a smile just as fake. "Then you should have no problem heading over to Autopsy B. Now."

"Of course not," she stood and plucked the folder out of his grip.

"But on the off chance that there is something wrong Jordan," he began. "You know my door is always open."

"Thanks Garret, really appreciate it," this time the smile resembled something slightly less plastic. Garret's lips twitched as if he wanted to say something. (Probably along the lines of 'Jordan, Autopsy B.'—Garret was so straightforward.) He twitched again. "I know, I know. Autopsy B," Jordan placed her hands up in mock surrender as she raced off

Still in her scrubs, Jordan entered her office, pulled off the standard latex gloves and flopped down into the comfortable chair. She yanked her long hair free of the tight elastic band that held it in place and threw it down on the desk. She resisted the urge to scream and settled for a pathetic groan instead. It had been one hell of day. There seemed to be a never-ending stream of bodies coming into the morgue, and it was hard to catch up. Add to the fact that Garret was making quite sure that everyone not only caught up, but also stayed one step ahead. Sleep deprived and irritable, Jordan just wanted to go home.

"Tough day, huh, love?"

Jordan looked up to see Nigel standing in the doorway; his lanky frame leaning half against the wall. He, too, was still in his scrubs and his grin had a faded quality of somebody who worked too hard.

"I've had worse," she admitted. "Although this ranks pretty close to the top."

"Tell me about it," Nigel agreed, taking a seat in front of her and propping his long legs up on the desk.

"Please say that Garret has ended his rampage and we can all go home," Jordan kidded.

"I think it may be safe pet," Nigel winked. "What do say to a celebratory end of the day drink?"

"Not tonight Nige," she groaned again. "Right now, all I want is my bed and some sleep."

"Didn't rest well last night Jordan?" he leaned forward.

"Try not at all," as if on cue, Jordan yawned to prove her point.

"And what kept you tossing and turning love?" Nigel wiggled his eyebrows.

"Nothing in particular," she lied. Nigel gave slight nod with his head, in a manner that suggested he knew that Jordan was holding back. "Really it was nothing Nige."

"C'mon, tell Uncle Nigel all about your problems," he said with another wag of his brows.

"Just couldn't sleep is all," Jordan returned. "And then Woody phoned—"

"Oh, so does young Woodrow play a part in this little melodrama that is the life of Dr. Cavanaugh?" Nigel cut in.

"No, he doesn't," she heaved a sigh to mask the crack in her voice. "He's been having a rough time with a case he's working on."

"The Boston Slash and Dash Killer?" he asked.

"Oh, is that what they're calling this sicko?"

"It was all over the papers this morning," Nigel shrugged. "Some rookie reporter got a hold of some inside information. It was all there in black and white print, photos, every detail."

"Great, that's just what this city needs. A how to on being a multiple murderer," Jordan scoffed.

"Nigel," Garret's head popped through the door. "I need you to go over some of these prelims with me. Walcott is all over my ass I need to get them in order for tomorrow."

"Get out while you can love," Nigel whispered to Jordan.

"What was that Nige?" Garret questioned.

"Right behind you boss," Nigel put on a weak grin and followed Garret to his office.

Jordan decided to heed Nigel's advice and book it before Garret found some arbitrary task for her as well. The last thing she needed was to spend a night at the morgue going over decade old files and end up crashing on the couch. Although, sadly that sounded like most of Jordan's Friday nights.

As she walked to her SUV (thankfully unnoticed by Garret), her cell phone let out a sharp ring. Wincing at the thought of who it might be, she hesitantly answered.

"Cavanaugh."

"Jordan, it's Woody. You got a minute?" he said in a rush.

"Several at the moment, I'm just on my way home," she told him as she climbed in the automobile. "You still at work?"

"This case is seriously busting my balls Jordan," Woody moaned.

"Lovely image as that is, why'd you call?"

"I think I can get off here in few minutes or so, and I was hoping I could swing by your place. Finish what we talking about this morning," he explained.

"Uh…sure," Jordan bit her lip as she semi-choked the answer out.

"Great, see you in a—"

Woody stopped and Jordan could hear someone angrily yell out "Hoyt!"

"Little while," he finished with a tired sigh.

Woody arrived at Jordan's apartment nearly an hour later. Eddie had quite a funny concept of time, apparently five to ten minutes equals around sixty of them instead. He knocked on the door, trying not to pound all his frustrations into it. His now sore fist and Jordan opening the door with a panicked look suggested he did otherwise.

"Sorry," Woody immediately apologized, stepping inside. He gently rubbed his knuckles.

"No problem," she said, shutting the door behind her.

Woody loosened his tie. It was beginning to feel like a noose, although after the day he'd had he was thinking that death by asphyxiation might not be a bad way to go. As he made his way to Jordan's sofa he also flipped open the top button of his shirt. Jordan, he had noticed, was wearing an old pair of sweats and a T-shirt. She sat down beside him, handing him a beer.

"Looks like you could use this," Jordan told him.

"What about you?" he gave a quick jerk of his head in her direction while taking a long swig of the beverage.

"Trying to cut back," she smirked.

"You already had one?" Woody guessed.

"Several," Jordan answered. "So, any major breakthroughs on that case that I should be updated on?"

"I wish. If anything, I'd say things have gotten worse."

"I heard about the information being leaked to the press," Jordan gave an uneasy frown.

"Yeah," Woody shook his head and took another sip of his beer. "As if it's not hard enough to try and catch this bastard. Now it's plastered on the front page of every Boston newspaper, the six o'clock news. Everywhere. We've been very careful about what's been released to the press, trying not to scare the public…"

"And you still haven't found anything that would give this guy motive to kill all these innocent people?" Jordan questioned.

"If we did Jordan, I'd still be down at the station," he declared, finishing his drink.

"Then maybe the public have the right to know."

"Maybe," Woody shrugged indifferently. "But it's my job to protect the public."

"You're a great detective Woody," Jordan stated, running her hand up his arm in reassurance.

A long awkward moment passed between the two of them. Strange, they both had so much to say, yet neither could even open their mouths. They sat in the silence, comfortable with the fact that they could, uncomfortable with the fact that they did.

"Jordan," Woody was the first to take the plunge.

"Hmm?" she responded, whipping her head around to face him.

"Jordan," he repeated. "We can't keep doing this to ourselves."

"Woody, I know you came over here to talk, but—"

"If we don't do this now Jordan, when are we going to? I don't want this to go ignored and ruin our friendship together."

"Woody, continuing what ever it is that we're doing, that could ruin the friendship." she said.

"Jordan," Woody sighed her name this time. "I'm willing to take a chance for that. At least it will have been worth something, rather than nothing."

Another moment of silence fell upon them.

"Listen," he continued. "I know that you're scared, to love me or to hurt me, or whatever. But, I promise you Jordan, I won't let that happen. I love you too much to let that happen. And I know that this might seem sudden, but God Jordan, when I first met you I knew that there was something special about you. To even be part of that—of you—felt like the best thing in the world. I love you, I love you Jordan."

Jordan's eyes began to fill with tears, and Woody was unsure if that was a good sign or bad sign. Sometimes Jordan made it so hard to tell. She guarded her emotions so much, that even when they did spill over, you never knew what to think. Whether she was happy or sad or angry. Deciding that it didn't matter, Woody slowly wiped away the few tears that had fallen with the pad of this thumb. She seemed to jump slightly at his touch, but soon relaxed.

Moving his hand to cradle her cheek, Woody leaned in and let his lips softly brush hers. She responded, at first, wrapping her arms around his neck, kissing him back just as passionately as he was kissing her. But then she pulled away.

"Woody I…" a stifled sob caught the back of her throat. "I can't do this."

"What?" a startled Woody asked.

"I can't," Jordan said again.

"Can't or won't Jordan?" Woody questioned, an angry edge to his voice.

"Can't," she stressed. "I can't love you."

"Fine…" Woody muttered. He stood up abruptly and began to leave.

"Woody wait!" Jordan called out.

Woody turned around, a look of hurt stamped on his handsome features. His hand rested on the end of the door, his legs ready to bolt.

"I'm…I'm sorry," she offered.

"Me too Jordan," he replied, walking out the door.

Jordan ran her hands through her hair and willed herself not to cry. It was no use. The tears began to stream down her face as much as she begged them not to. She rubbed her eyes with the front of her shirt and crawled into bed. It was going to be another long and sleepless night.