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It's all for fun.

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Part Three: For a Smart Man

Jordan's office was dark. Woody leaned his head against the doorframe, sighing in an exhaustion that was physical as it was mental and emotional. The last day that had been this bad? The day he'd been shot. He pursed his lips and turned slowly.

"Woody?"

Hoyt started at the sound of Garret Macy's voice. "Dr. Macy. Hi."

Macy studied the detective for a moment. There were new lines around his eyes and mouth, a new heaviness to his step, an erosion in his ease and charm. "Can I help you?"

Woody shook his head. "I - uh - Jordan wanted to know when we got the boyfriend in that baby case."

Garret's eyebrows went up. "You got him?"

A nod from Hoyt. "I'll - I'll just call her. She said she wanted to know."

For a moment Garret was going to let him go, let him walk down the hall, punch the elevator call button and get in it. He could let Woody drive home, call Jordan, give her the news. He could let things go. Or he could say something. A lot of somethings, really. "Woody? Got a minute?"

Woody turned around. "I - I'm sorry, Doc. I'm-"

"It's important."

Meeting the re-instated Chief M.E.'s gaze, Woody got the message. Tiredly, he nodded. Macy gestured toward his office. "Coffee?"

"That'd be... yeah, great."

While Macy got the coffee, Woody sat down and rested his head against the back of Macy's couch. His eyes closed. He could almost fall asleep. Except she was here. Not here here. But the faint scent of her perfume lingered in the room. Images of her danced against his eyelids - sitting talking with her boss, walking down the hall, rushing to catch the elevator. Jordan. Jordan in an autopsy suite. Jordan in trace. Jordan, her dark head bent over something Nigel was showing her. Jordan doing her grisly job with a thoroughness born of passion and compassion. Jordan... Jordan... Jordan... His heart thumped its beat to the syllables of her name.

Woody sighed, scrubbed his hands over his eyes. He was about to get up and leave when Garret returned. Macy assessed the situation. "Going somewhere?"

"Look, Dr. Macy, I'm sorry. Whatever it is, it can wait, can't it? This day has been-"

"Actually, Woody, it can't wait. I think it's waited long enough."

His temper rising slightly, Woody replied, "If this is about Jordan, it really can wai-"

"Of course it's about Jordan! Do you think you're the only one who had a hard day? Do you think you're the only one who's - who's been hurt?"

"Jordan? Jordan Cavanaugh? You'll have to forgive me, Dr. Macy, if I have a little trouble believing that one. I know this case got to her. These sorts of cases get to everyone. But anything else? Un-uh. Not Jordan."

"You know, Woody, for a smart man, you can be an idiot sometimes." Macy thrust a cup of coffee at him. "Sit down." Macy's normally controlled voice held a dangerous edge. Woody sat. "You really think you know her, don't you?"

Angry, defensive, and now slightly doubting his own judgment, Woody retorted, "Yeah. Yeah, I know her pretty well."

"And you tried? Tried to get through her defenses? Gave her time. Gave her space. Pushed her. You tried everything."

"Yeah. I did! I would have given anything for Jordan to-"

"Anything except letting her be there for you. Anything except your pride. Anything except believing in her!"

An unseen hand thumped Woody on the chest. His pulse jumped a notch or two. "That's not fair!"

"Really? Let me tell you what isn't fair," Macy sneered. "Jordan could finally say it, could finally tell you what you meant to her and you pushed her away as hard as you could. Because you knew Jordan. You knew she'd go."

"And I was right." Woody smirked coldly.

"No, you were wrong. Jordan did something I've never known her to do. Everything fell apart and she stayed, Woody. She stayed in Boston. She stayed here, even the days when I know she seriously wondered if she could manipulate the forensics enough to get away with strangling Slocum. And when you came back to active duty, she never once asked me to assign someone else to your cases. You think you know Jordan Cavanaugh? This happened four years ago, Woody?" Macy shook his head dismissively. "Four years ago, you'd be right. Four years ago, Jordan would have been out of here. That was how she stayed strong. Or how she thought she did. Anyone got close enough to hurt, she was gone. No one can hurt you if you're not there. So what does it tell you, that she's still here? Think about it!"

Woody stared at the coffee Garret had handed him. "She said it because she felt sorry for me."

Garret slammed down his own mug on his desk. "She said it because she loves you."

Woody's blue gaze came up, accusatory, pained. "Then why hasn't she said anything since then?" His voice rose in anger. "How am I supposed to believe her?"

Macy's eyes pinned Woody to the spot. "Because she's Jordan. Because she doesn't say things she doesn't mean."

Another bitter smirk from Hoyt. "You said yourself she's changed."

"That won't ever change, Woody. Jordan will never stop speaking her mind. She's just finally learned to talk about what's in her heart, too."

Those words froze the homicide detective. He knew every word Macy had said was true. He didn't want it to be true because that would mean he'd have blown it big time. He'd have let slip away everything he'd ever wanted. "Yeah? Doesn't change anything."

"Why not?" Now Garret was genuinely mystified.

"I screwed up."

Macy chuckled. "Another thing you might want to remember about Jordan." He paused. "She does give second chances." He smiled. "Almost as many as she gets sometimes."

Handing Macy the mug of untouched coffee, Woody stood up. "I'll think about it." He opened the door to Macy's office.

"Don't think about it, Woody. Stop thinking about it. And don't call her."

XXXXX

Jordan's hair was wrapped in a towel. She had on her oldest, most comfortable pajamas and a ratty robe Evelyn had given her during the brief time period the woman had tried to win over Mac's daughter. The robe was pink. Jordan's sat on the couch, staring at nothing, taking occasional sips from a glass of wine she'd poured after her bath. Beneath the terrycloth turban her hair was nearly dry. The wine was warm. She noticed none of that. In fact, at first, she didn't notice the knocking.

"Jordan? Jordan? I know you're there. I saw the lights!"

She started with a small sound, gazing around owlishly. "Huh?" She blinked and finally registered the renewed tapping at her door. Snatches of Poe tripped through her brain. Tapping, rapping...nevermore. She shook herself. "Yeah, yeah. Hold on a minute."

She padded to the door and peered through the security hole. Her brows knit down. She opened the door.
"Woody?"

He made a pretense of looking around the hallway. "Yep. Seems to be me." His face grew serious. "Can I come in?"

"Oh...yeah. Sure." Jordan stood aside.

Woody looked at her. "Nice robe."

"It's pink." Which really struck Hoyt as a nonsequitur but he let it go.

"We got him. The boyfriend. Mike O'Neal."

Jordan came crashing into reality. "You did? Where? When? Where is he now?"

"Slow down, Jordan. I'll tell you everything." He glanced around. "Mind if I have a seat?"

Her eyes widened. "Oh, sorry. No. Sit down. Want some wine? A beer?"

He noticed her half empty glass. "Whatever you're having."

Jordan picked up her own glass and carried it into the kitchen. She dumped out the warm wine and poured a new measure for herself. Into a clean glass went the last of the bottle for Woody. When she brought them back, she found him sitting on one end of the couch, his position a near mirror of the one he'd held in Garret's office. She spoke quietly. "Here."

He lifted his head. She saw the darkness in his eyes. It was there so much more often now. He probably thought she didn't notice, but, of course, she did. She noticed everything. Included the trembling of his hand as he took the proferred glass. "Thanks." He took a sip.

Jordan perched on the other end of the sofa. "So, what happened?"

Woody looked at her. "You remember when I said I wanted to nail him to the wall and you said you'd bring the nail gun?"

"Yeah." Jordan's voice was distant. "That was this morning."

"Was it? Feels like about ten years ago."

She gave him a taut smile. "Ten years ago I'd have found him myself, chosen the wall and gone from there all on my own."

Woody couldn't help the tired grin the picture he got in his head. "Today I might have let you."

"That bad?"

He looked at her, searching her eyes, finding her strength. "Just promise me you'll bring that nail gun to court. I want Walcott to put the son of a bitch away until the Sox win the Series again."

END Part Three

TBC...