I forgot this at the beginning: Disclaimer: I own no part of Crossing Jordan. I'm just playing with the characters for a while.

AN: this fic was inspired by the song at the beginning of chapter one (which I think fits Woody rather well), as well as my own observations about Jordan's behavior

Thanks to all who read! And to those who review, esp. Lioness-Rampant!

Okay, that's enough of me – on to the story!

Chapter 3: Garret

Garret sat in his office, his chair tipped back, fingertips coming together at his mouth. The early morning sun shone in through the window, creating a biting glare. Through the glass and the glare off window in front of him, he could still see Nigel changing the bandage on Woody's forehead. The two men then shook hands, slapping each other's shoulders at the same time. A few more words were exchanged and then Detective Hoyt took off. Nigel turned and met his gaze through the glass before turning in the other direction and going back, presumably, to trace.

Garret thought about all that had happened that night. After confessing the events of the last couple months, Woody's energy had almost instantly drained away. He had gotten to his feet, intending to drive home, but he and Nigel had stopped him. Even though the glass hadn't hit him head on, no pun intended, the fact that he had been hit on the head at all and the amount of blood on his collar had prompted them to take his keys away, afraid he might have a concussion and pass out on the road. Garret insisted that Woody sleep on the couch in his office. Woody hadn't had the energy to protest, had simply slumped down onto the couch and fallen asleep. He wasn't too happy, though, when Garret and Nigel took turns waking him every hour or so to make sure he didn't have a concussion.

Now it was morning, and Woody had said his good-byes. He had told them that he may go undercover as early as today, so he might not see them for awhile. He had asked that they both keep that information to themselves – for the integrity of the investigation.

"What should we tell Jordan when she asks? You know, starts digging a little deeper." Nigel had asked. "You know she will. Eventually," he added softly.

Garret glanced over to Woody, almost knowing the answer before he spoke.

Woody looked up at the two men he considered friends. "Ifshe ever asks, you mean. She's pretty mad at me." He sighed, then looked up at Garret. "Tell her whatever you think is best. And… and tell her I'm sorry I wasn't enough, that I wasn't what she needed."

And now Woody was gone. Garret stole a glance at his watch. It was 6:45 am. The morning shift, Jordan's next shift, was due on in just 15 minutes. He swiveled his chair in thought, wondering how in the hell he was going to confront a women whom he considered a good friend and almost a second daughter.

Part 2

Jordan was late. Garret glanced up for the third time in the last half hour. Usually she was a few minutes late. Fifteen at most. Finally, at quarter to eight, through the windows of the room he was in, he saw her. She had just stepped off the elevator and was talking with the receptionist. Her hair was pulled back in a hurried pony-tail, and she was wearing simple fare: jeans, a t-shirt-like top and her semi-standard boots. Turning away from the assignments board, he took a breath. It was now or never.

"Jordan," he said as he approached her, trying to keep his voice even.

"Oh, hey, Garret," she said brightly.

He frowned. She seemed a little too chipper. And upon closer inspection, he could see that her eyes were blurry and dilated. Wait, she wasn't…oh, for the love of… she was.

"You won't believe what happened to me! I'm all ready for work and everything, and get outside, and BOOM! Someone's stolen my car! I looked everywhere for it but finally had to take a cab to work. Can you believe that! Oh, hey. I should file a police report, right."

Jordan Cavanaugh was drunk. At work. At nearly 8:00 in the morning. "Excuse us," he said to Michelle, the morning receptionist. He grabbed Jordan's arm and hissed in her ear, "Come with me. We need to talk," and then unceremoniously let her to his office.

He pushed Jordan into the room ahead of him and then securely locked his office door. "Jordan, you what to tell me what the hell you're doing here in this condition?"

She frowned as she sat heavily on the couch. "You mean with my car stolen? I'm not really following you there, Gar."

"No, Jordan, not with your car stolen. And it's not stolen, by the way. You popped two tires at a crime scene yesterday and had to have it towed. What I mean, is what are you doing here drunk."

She went wide eyes for a half second, then gave him a 'pa-shaw' look and wave her hand at him. "Drunk. I'm not drunk. I just woke up, how could I be drunk?"

"Waking up drunk has been known to happen. Usually when you have a lot to drink and don't sleep long enough for it to get out of your system. That and the fact that you can't seem to walk straight, your eyes are glazed over and you smell like gin. You're lucky Michelle's got a cold and can't smell a thing right now."

Suddenly, Jordan seemed infuriated. She jumped off the couch and got in his face. "I am not drunk," she started to say. But she hiccoughed in the middle of her sentence and promptly stumbled over her own feet.

Garret rolled his eyes heavenward and then reached down to help her to her up. "Jordan, go home. Sleep it off. I'll talk to you later."

She tried once more to protest. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm scheduled for this shift and I'm supposed to work."

"Jordan," he said sternly. "Don't make me write you up. Come on, I'll call you a cab."

"I don't feel so good."

Garret cursed softly. The fight had gone out of her quickly and he felt her shoulders lurch under his hands. Quickly, he led her to the unisex bathroom across the hall, where she promptly threw up. He waited until it became mostly dry heaves, then helped her wash her hands and face. Gripping her shoulders, he went back to his office to retrieve his cell phone and wallet, then took her downstairs and hailed a cab. For a brief moment, he considered asking the driver to simply take her home, but the disposition of both Jordan and the driver convinced him otherwise. He got into the cab with Jordan, issued their destination, and pulled out his cell phone.

"Boston Coroner. How may I help you?"

"Michelle, its Dr. Macy. I need to talk to Bug… Hey, Bug?"

"Yeah, it's me. What do you need? Why didn't you just shout for me like you usually do?" Bug was a little confused to have his boss calling him from across the hall.

"Look, I'm out of the office, and will be for another hour or so. Think you can do the trace evidence on the new body that rolled in about an hour ago? The DA's pretty anxious to have it as soon as possible."

"Sure. Are you out on a call? Should we be expecting another body?"

"No, nothing like that. Jordan just showed up to the office, sick as a dog. I'm taking her home."

"Ah. The evil little flu virus that's been hopping around. So we're going to be a short an M.E. today?"

"Yeah. Call Sydney. See if he's any better and can help out today."

"Oh joy. So not only do I get to work with Mr. Showoff, he's going to be sick too."

"Bug, just do it, all right? I'm going to make sure Jordan gets her ass in bed."

On the other end of the line, Bug laughed. "Good luck with that. We all know how stubborn Jordan can be, sick or not."

Garret didn't bother to reply, just snapped his cell phone shut. Hopefully, no one back at the office had seen her long enough to realize that she was drunk and not sick with the flu. He looked over at the woman beside him. She was awake, but barely, leaning against the window, tracing shapes on it with her finger. He sighed. He hadn't wanted to believe that Woody was right, but the proof was here staring him in the face. And any intervention was going to have to wait until later, when she was lucid enough to understand what the hell was going on.

Fifteen minutes later, the driver stopped at her apartment building. Garret silently paid the driver, and then helped Jordan out of the car and up to her apartment. Fishing into the purse hung across her shoulder, he found her keys, grateful that she had at least remembered to lock her door and bring them with her, and helped her into the apartment. By then, Jordan was leaning heavily on him, almost completely asleep. Groaning, more from frustration than her slight weight, he managed to get her onto her bed. Luck was with him in that she hadn't made her bed, so he didn't have to pull down the covers. Once she hit the bed, she surrendered any semblance of consciousness, rolling over onto her side and curling up into her pillow. Garret pulled off her boots, placing them at the end of the bed. Briefly, he wondered how many times Woody had done exactly what he was doing today. Covering for Jordan and taking care of her. He shook his head and pulled the covers over her, closed the blinds to block out the now mid-morning sun, and left the room.

He wandered into the living room and spotted the source of Jordan's condition. On the coffee table were a mid-sized bottle of vodka – of a rather high proof - and two hard cider bottles, all empty. Picking them up, he wondered how late into the night she'd been drinking. But then he stopped short when he reached the kitchen and was confronted with the evidence of last night's events.

Shards of glass were sprinkled across the floor, concentrated at the base of the refrigerator. He saw half a dozen large drops of blood on the floor, and a small smear of blood on the side of the freezer door. All of it was no doubt Woody's. He grimaced, recalling Woody's account of the events and the rather copious amount of blood down the front of the detective's shirt. Had Jordan seen her kitchen this morning? If she had, did she remember? It certainly seemed like she had no idea what had happened last night. Garret stepped around the glass and put the four bottles into the recycling bin Jordan kept in the pantry. There, he found half a dozen more bottles. He stared at them for a while, sadness permeating further into his demeanor.

He straightened and closed the pantry door. How in the hell had Jordan functioned while drinking so much? He had no idea, but it was clear now, though, that she couldn't anymore. So now, it was time for tough love. It should have started weeks ago, and hopefully it wasn't too late.

He reached up into the cupboard above the refrigerator, where he knew the alcohol was kept, careful not to disturb any of the blood or glass. He wanted her to see them once she dried out. The cupboard was half full, and he pulled down each bottle, draining its contents into the sink and putting the bottles in the recycling. Hunting around, he found duct tape in one of the kitchen drawers. Of all the people he knew, only Jordan would keep duct tape and needle nosed pliers in the same drawer as the potato peeler and ice cream scoop. He would have preferred a hammer and nails, but this would suffice. He taped the alcohol cupboard closed, sealing each side with multiple layers. Satisfied with his work, he taped a short note to the cupboard then left her apartment. Like Woody, he made sure all the doors were locked before he left.