A/N: Woah! I didn't realize that most people would conclude that Jordan was completely naked, not that I can blame you. Although everyone needs a little naked time (see Potter Puppet Pals), I didn't intend for undressed to be synonymous with nude, but then my mind is oddly pure. Sorry if I've disappointed or misled anyone. I hope you enjoy the following chapter, anyway. If you don't, or if you do, please let me know.

Also, a big, Altar Boyz-style shout-out to my beloved Seestorus, who helped me iron out the kinks in my plot. Just for her, I've included a Forbidden Broadway: SVU reference. Can you spot it?

Chapter 6 – The Nearness of You

1947

It's not the pale moon that excites me,

That thrills and delights me, oh, no –

It's just the nearness of you.

That Jordan was a master of situation was undeniable. The setting was perfect, something out of a dime store detective novel – the detective, world-weary and untouchable, coming home to find his quarry, female and overtly sexually charged, nude in his bed, Hoagy Carmichael's voice warbling over the static of the radio, mocking him as it crooned about "The Nearness of You." If he were one of those detectives, whom he both envied and abhorred for their detachment, he would have to throw her out, destroying the threat she posed to his dominance over the space he inhabited. However, just as he knew that he was not one of those detectives, he also knew that Jordan was not one of those girls. Impulsive rather than manipulative, he could easily believe that she had merely decided to run out without an umbrella and had sensibly undressed to avoid catching cold or ruining whatever she chose to sit upon. However, he also surmised that that same impulsiveness would not stop her from using the situation – the vulnerability given to her by her bedraggled appearance, not to mention the damp slip clinging to her skin – to her advantage.

"Jordan," he said, his voice harsh and clipped, "what are you doing here?"

She opened her mouth to answer, when a crash of thunder shook the apartment, and she jumped, shivering again and drawing up the blankets that had been lying loosely around her. Remembering her fear of thunderstorms, Woody almost decided to take pity on her, but then he recalled all of the anger that had been building over six years of not seeing her, and continued in the same cold vein.

"What are you doing here?" he asked again, voice rising.

"Haven't you been looking for me?" she answered, her impertinence seemingly undiminished.

"Jordan," he warned.

"All right," she relented. "I…I need your help."

"That's wonderful, Jordan. Really, it is, and if we had been on anything like friendly terms for the past six years I might just consider throwing caution and security to the wind and following you like an addled lap dog on your latest adventure. I'm sure you expect me to."

For a moment, she looked as if she had been slapped, shock and hurt warring in her expression, but then the all-too-familiar fire rekindled, and she leapt out of bed to stand toe-to-toe with him, matching his furious tone with one of her own.

"Are you really addled? Do you think I was the one that rejected you? That I just decided on my own to run off? That you didn't do everything in your power to drive me away? Do you think I would be here if this wasn't my last resort? Whatever else you are, though, you're trustworthy, and I need your help, so stop yelling at me and listen."

Intrigued in spite of himself, and grudgingly acknowledging the justice of her reprimand, Woody decided to hear her out, relinquishing his anger and sinking wearily into a chair, motioning for her to do the same.

"What is it that you want, Jordan?" he asked resignedly.

"I need to find out what happened to my mother."

"Your mother? Jordan, that case has been cold for almost twenty years."

"I know, but I have to know what happened to her. I feel like there's something I'm missing, something I should know. I can't and won't go home until I know."

"Why can't you go home?" he probed.

"I'm not safe there."

"Why?"

"I wish I could tell you. I don't know, exactly. I just feel…threatened. I'm not sure who I can trust, but I know I can trust you. Will you help me?"

He leaned back, weighing what he knew of Jordan's obstinacy against his desire to be done with the whole affair. Sighing wearily, he made up his mind.

"It doesn't look like I have much choice. My job is to bring you home, and you won't go home until you find out what happened. I'm just expediting matters."

"I'm glad you see it that way," she replied with a smirk.

The tension between them now defused, Woody once again noticed her appearance, taking in the wet hair plastered to her skin and the thin body that shivered in the warm air of his apartment. He also noticed a tautness to her, like a spring wound too tightly or a rubber band stretched almost to the breaking point. She was too thin, too tired, and too tense for him not to pity her, despite the lingering anger that caused a tiny part of him to triumph at her expense.

"What are you going to do about the rest of the night?" he asked, with more compassion than he had heretofore shown.

"I was going to go back to the rooms I'm renting, but…" She gestured to her waterlogged garments.

"I suppose I have to offer you a place to stay, then."

A deafening peal of thunder once again interrupted her, and she jumped, wrapping her arms around her body as her only form of protection. Seeing her so frightened and uncharacteristically helpless, it was all he could do not to wrap his arms around her and soothe her like a little child. Instead, he shuffled painfully across the room, opening a drawer and pulling out a white button-down shirt.

"Here," he said gruffly. "Put this on. You can stay here till morning."

"Thank you, Woody," she replied, sadly noting his pronounced limp. "But are you sure…"

"Just put the shirt on, Jordan, and get in bed."

"I…I can't take your bed. You need it."

"I'll be fine on the couch, now go to sleep," he said in a tone that brooked no argument, and for once, miraculously, she didn't argue.

She wrapped the shirt around herself, not bothering to push up the sleeves as she crawled into his narrow, Spartan bed.

"Good night, Woody."

"Good night, Jordan."