So, so, sooooo sorry to have left you guys hanging like that! Other things just got hooked into my brain and kind of let my muse for this story out of it's cage. But I'm back now! And hopefully, since there's only one or two more chapters left, I'll have this story finished for you guys shortly after the new year.

But for now, I hope you like this chapter – and please review!

Chapter 8: Woody

Woody stepped out from the cab and into the biting September wind. The coat he had been wearing earlier that day was ruined, and the Boston PD windbreaker he now wore did nothing to keep the cold air from his body. Still having a buzz cut didn't help either.

He paid the driver, and as the cab drove away to its next job, Woody looked up at the building he was about to enter. He took note of the time on the clock above the entrance: 5:40. Much longer than the two hours he had told Jordan earlier.

"Hello?"

The voice on the other end of the phone was classically soft but still resolute. How very Jordan-esque, he thought. He cleared his throat before responding. "Jordan."

She instantly recognized his voice, though it was gruffer and more solemn than she remembered. "Woody! Where are you? Are you okay?"

Back in the run down hotel room, Woody had blinked, confused for a moment before he realized that Nigel and Garret must have clued her in. Captain Fischer had told him at some point in the past few weeks that those two were involved in the evidence processing. He remembered being relieved when he heard that. They were two of the best in the business, and if anyone could ferret information out of the lousy physical evidence he was able to get back, it would be them. "I'm fine, Jordan," he said, nodding to the uniformed officer who was picking up his bag – the lone items he'd traveled with these past months. He held the phone between his left shoulder and his ear so he could rub the fingers of his left hand across his forehead. "Listen, is there someplace we can talk?"

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing… well, nothing a double caramel latte and a week's worth of sleep can't help," he tried joking.

She didn't take the bait, but laughed a little at his lame joke. "I'll bring one with me. Where are you?"

He sighed. "Nowhere you should be. Look, I've got to take care of a few things first, so… where are you?"

"At the office."

Woody practically fought the urge whack himself in the forehead. Duh, she was at the office. Where else would a normal person be in the middle of the day on a Tuesday. "Right… well, can I just meet you in your office in a couple hours?"

"Sure, no problem. Shall I bring the double caramel lattes?"

He smiled. "No, that's okay. But Jordan... how… how're you doing?"

The tone in her voice told him she knew exactly what he was talking about. "I'm good, Wood. I got help, thanks to you. It's been hard sometimes, but I'm working on it."

He smiled. "That's good, Jordan. I'll see you in a couple hours." He hung up before she could ask anything else.

He pulled the windbreaker tighter around him as best he could and stepped into the building. Going through the lobby and up the elevator felt… off-kilter. The building seemed strange, almost new. Not surprising since he used to come nearly every day, but now hadn't been here in three months. And of the handful of people he encountered, no one called out to him. It seemed no one recognized him. The fact that he was wearing a generic BPD jacket instead of a suit coat, wrap-around ray bans and had a short haircut probably had something to do with it.

Stepping off the elevator into the more familiar morgue, Woody was still waiting for someone to recognize him. It didn't take long. A well-known redhead slammed out of a nearby room, the door swinging shut behind her. "Bonehead," he heard her murmur as she looked down to write on the clipboard her arms.

He smiled, taking off the sunglasses and hanging them on the collar of his shirt. "Those boneheads always have been trouble, haven't they, Lily?"

She looked up, her expression blank for a moment before a smile lit her face. "Woody!" She ran up to give him a hug, but stopped short. "Oh my gosh! Woody, are you okay?"

He gave her a soft smile. "Good enough for a hug. Come here." He reached out his left hand and she returned his hug gently.

"How have you been? Where have you been? How come you never called?"

"Easy there, Lil. There'll be time for all that later. Is Jordan still around?"

"Yeah, she's in her office. She's been pacing a hole in the floor for the last three and a half hours and now I know why. Are you sure there's nothing I can get for you? Coffee? An ice pack? Aspirin?"

"I'll be fine. I'll catch up with you later." He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder before moving on to Jordan's office. As he approached, he could see her figure through the windows, still lithe and strong, walking circles around her desk.

He reached her door, surprised that she still hadn't noticed him from the corner of her eye, and raised a hand to knock, but stopped when he caught sight of his own reflection in the glass.

He was amazed at how different he looked; definitely not the same man who had walked out of this building three months ago. The short haircut set off his angular features – definitely not to his liking. It showed off the nose that had been broken the first week he'd been undercover, as well as his irregularly shaped head and prominent cheekbones. The borrowed cloths he wore showcased a body that was no longer lean and trim but stalwart and defined. The men with whom he had lived and worked with for the past three months had been very fond of weightlifting. Woody had joined in, making sure to keep his cover. Combined with restless nights, the result was a body with a different build. But what he knew would most concern Jordan, as a doctor, at least, were the injuries he had sustained in the… well, the battle – there was no other word for it – this morning at the warehouse on the dock. One eye was blackened, and there was a bruise forming along his jaw. Tape beneath his shirt shored up at least one broken rib. He was favoring his right leg, where a bullet had grazed his calf, and his right arm was in a sling to protect his shoulder, where another bullet had gone clean through.

Jesus, he thought briefly. Maybe I should have called this off, waited until I didn't look like the wrong end of a hit-and-run. But it was too late to turn back now. Lily, at least, already knew he was here. He knocked on the window gently with two knuckles, garnering her attention.

Jordan whirled around at the sound. He noticed that, like Lily, she did a double take at his appearance. But Jordan recovered faster, almost lunging toward the door as he gently pushed it open. "Hey Jordan."

He could see from her expression that she wanted to come closer, but she stopped a good three feet from him. "Are you okay?" she asked lightly as he hovered just inside the doorway.

"Eventually," Woody said. Then, not giving her a chance to back away or object, he reached out with this good arm and drew her to him for a hug. She resisted at first, but then allowed herself to fold into his embrace.

After several moments, the silence became awkward, and she drew away

"So," Jordan said, sticking her hands in the back pockets of her jeans.

He recognized the beginning of one of their frequent song-and-dance conversations. They type where pleasantries are exchanged, or work was discussed, and nothing ever said about their feelings for each other. Suddenly weary, he let himself drop down to the couch. "I'm sorry, Jordan."

She frowned. "Aren't I the one who's supposed to be sorry?" She brought her hands out from her pockets, clasping them together for a moment before stepping over to the couch to sit beside him. "What are you sorry for?" A trace of wariness laced her voice.

He sighed and started to fiddle with his sling. "For a lot of things. For shouting at you in your apartment that night, and leaving the next day without telling you anything. And for trying to control your life before that."

"Yeah, I didn't really like that. But I'm the one who should be sorry."

He frowned a moment, then touched the scar that crossed his forehead. "For this? Jordan, it was an accident. I'm sure you weren't aiming for my head."

"Actually," she said, guilt etching her features, "I'm pretty sure I was."

His eyebrows raised in slight surprise. "Really."

She shrugged, her expression sheepish. "Yeah. I say 'pretty sure' because I can't really remember much about that night. But it's not the only thing I'm apologizing for." She took a deep breath. "What I'm really sorry for is putting you in that position in the first place. I practically forced you to lookout for me whenever we went out."

"Jordan, I'm your friend, aren't I. Of course I would look out –"

She held up a hand. "Yeah, but I shouldn't have put you in that position. I took advantage of you, knowing that you'd watch out for me no matter how much we weren't getting along. Then it all came to a head that night when… Well, you know what happened better than I do."

"How much do you remember?"

"I just get flashes here and there. I remember holding a glass in my hand, and seeing you standing near my refrigerator, but that's about it. Nigel and Garret wanted to see if I'd remember on my own, but after a while, when it became clear that I wasn't going to remember at all, they filled in the gaps."

He cleared his throat. "So… how're you doing with all that?"

She nodded her head slightly, shaking loose a tendril of hair from her ponytail. "Pretty good, actually. That night, and the fact that I blacked out for about 24 hours after that, were really good motivators for getting off the bottle. I went to an AA meeting a few days later, and haven't really looked back since."

"I'm glad Jordan. Good for you. But AA? What about the whole issue about accepting a higher power during the twelve steps? Wouldn't you have a problem with that?"

"Ah, but you just answered your own question. During the steps, you're asked to acknowledge a higher power than yourself. It doesn't have to be God though. It took me a few different groups for me to find one that I felt comfortable with and that helped me understand that."

Woody didn't say anything, and Jordan the opportunity to look closer at him, noticing again the dark circles that ran under his eyes, his pale skin tone and the worry and pain lines across his brow.

"Are you sure you're okay? Do you need me to take you to the hospital or something?"

He closed his eyes and sagged down further on the couch, letting his head rest against the back. "No. I'm good. I'm just tired, and happy to finally be home."

"Home?"

Woody heard the hesitation in her voice and opened his eyes to look at her. "Yeah. Home," he said, letting one corner of his mouth drift upwards.

He wasn't sure what exactly he was going to say next but he was interrupted when he heard the squeak of rubber-soled shoes dashing through the hall. Bug's voice echoed off the glass and stone walls of the corridor. "Jordan, you're not going to believe this. We finally got the bodies from the mob crackdown, and one of them is Ca –"

Bug stopped in mid sentence as he swung into Jordan's doorway, and saw Woody looking back at him. Still grasping the doorway, he stood there, suddenly silent.

"Jeez, Bug. Working on your imitation of a fish?" Jordan teased.

"No, no, that's – that's not what I… I," Bug stammered.

"It's okay, Bug. I know. Go ahead and tell her."

Jordan quickly glanced over at the man sitting next to her. Woody's voice had reverted to the quiet, almost defeated tone she had heard when he first entered her door. Looking back up at Bug, she asked carefully, "What were you going to say, Bug?"

Bug was looking at his left hand, which still clung to the doorway. "One of the bodies… we've…" He looked at Jordan, avoiding Woody's eyes, "we've identified one of the bodies as Calvin Hoyt."